


The Red Rose of York

by medieval_scribe



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Mild Language, Multi, Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."  </p>
<p>It is 1471, and Edward IV is back on the throne. His brother, Richard of Gloucester, is a young man in want of a wife and a good fortune. He sets his sights on his recently widowed cousin, Anne Neville, but his brother has an entirely different match in mind, Lady Margaret Beaufort. This is the story of how York and Lancaster joined forces, if only in my imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Modest Proposal

**A Modest Proposal**

__

For their love  
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them  
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

_The Palace at Westminster_  
November 1471

Richard swirls the wine in his goblet and then raises a glass to his brother. "A good hunt. Everyone behaved themselves."

A burst of laughter greets his words as Edward stretches his long legs in front of the fire and drinks deeply. "I did wonder if an arrow from George would just happen to catch me in the throat. But no matter. There is time enough for him to try again."

Richard frowns, contemplating his other brother. George has not been much trouble lately, though he is as restless as a caged lion and perhaps just as dangerous. Only the prospect of inheriting all of Warwick's wealth seems to satisfy him, but Richard hopes to have the last word there. 

"You jest too easily, Ned."

Edward scoffs. "I don't jest at all, truth be told. I am as wary of George as any man, but if I spent all my time worrying, I should grow old well before my time, brother." He sets his goblet down and walks to the window with the easy grace he is known for. 

"But as we are speaking of our brother, there is something I've been meaning to ask you, Richard." He turns from the window and leans against the wall, staring at his brother with a measured gaze. "What are your plans for Anne Neville?"

Taken aback by the sudden inquiry, Richard stumbles over his words. "Anne Neville?" 

"I am not a fool, Richard, no matter how much I prefer to play one. I know you want the girl."

Richard hesitates, not yet willing to reveal his heart, and not certain of Anne's feelings in the matter. It would be awkward to ask for her and then be refused. "She is our cousin, and she is sorely in need of a friend, so I have been one."

"Just a friend? Nothing more?"

"Nothing more," Richard adds with a quiet sigh. 

"Good. That will make this thing less difficult." 

Richard is instantly on guard. "What thing?"

"I didn't know how to bring this up, brother. But there's been a proposal for you. A rather unexpected one, if you ask me."

"Unexpected?" Richard laughs. But when there is no response from Edward, he asks with sincere curiosity. "From whom?" 

Edward is silent for a long while before he answers in his usual direct way. "Margaret Beaufort."

"What?" 

"Her man Bray was here. Apparently, our cousin of Stafford extracted a deathbed promise from her to make peace with York. She thinks marriage is the best option."

"Yes, but--"

"I happen to agree with her."

Richard nearly chokes on a mouthful of wine. It takes him a moment to recover, but when he begins to chastise Edward for his poor jest, he catches his brother's eyes. He sees there's no mirth in them, only calculation. 

"Why?" 

Edward steeples his fingers in front of his face and regards his brother through narrowed eyes. It would be easy to dismiss Richard's questions, to prey on his loyalty and sense of duty. But this is his brother, and he's earned the right to be heard, to be cajoled and persuaded rather than ordered into obedience. 

"Why, Richard? There are many reasons, but chief among them is this. I need you to hold the north, and if you are to do it well, you must have considerable wealth at your disposal. Margaret is a wealthy woman." 

Richard nods. "I know that." He sets down his goblet and speaks with care. "But, brother, you should know the north was heart and soul for Warwick, for the Nevilles." He leaves the rest unsaid. Edward is clever enough to see that Anne, with her considerable inheritance and her Neville kinship, is key to the north. 

"Heart and soul for Lancaster, you mean." Edwards gets up and paces the room, and Richard senses his unease. "I have not forgotten how they rose up for the old king in '60, how they gave succor to Margaret of Anjou." His voice trails off and silence stretches out between them. Edward does not speak of the horrors at Wakefield, of Mickelgate Bar, but the shadow of their father falls long and hard across their lives. 

"Margaret is nearly all that's left of Lancaster now, and I would have her, and that little whelp of hers, under my thumb. You know they're calling the Tudor boy the heir of Lancaster?" 

Richard scoffs. "He is nothing to worry about. Lancaster is spent. Come to it, you and I are more Lancaster than anyone of that house." 

Edward laughs, and allows this is true. But he cannot quench his disquiet, a sense that the threat has been met but not eliminated. He cannot rest on his past victories, at least not yet. 

"That is all well, brother. But there is advantage to the match, and I would not bring it to you if I didn't think it the best course. For York, and for England."

Richard bristles, partly at the veiled threat of being forced to marry against his will. "Even if it means I have to marry an old, barren widow?" He regrets the words instantly. He worries his lip with his teeth, looking for a way out.

But the tension is broken by Edward's roaring laughter. His amusement is obvious. "Is that what troubles you? Her age?" 

Richard's face burns scarlet with indignation. "I'm not unconcerned with it, if you must know."

Edward is still laughing. "She's not that old. Besides, if you will have it from me, I will say that older widows make good wives. They know _things_ ," he notes with a raised eyebrow, his cheer increased by Richard's growing discomfort. 

"As for the other matter, I cannot say." Edward shrugs, dismissing the concern over Margaret's ability to bear children. "Such things are beyond the reckoning of men anyhow."

Richard balks, but when he opens his mouth to speak, his thoughts are only half-formed. "I don't know if I--"

"Listen to me. You were not born yesterday, so I shouldn't have to tell you that we do not marry women for their youth and comeliness." He smiles wryly, aware of the irony of his words. "We marry for advantage, whatever that may be. I ask only that you give the proposal the consideration it deserves."

Richard's lips are set in a tight line and Edward can see the tension in his face, in the determined jut of his jaw. This battle is not going to be won as easily as he'd hoped. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Edward approaches his brother and puts a hand to his shoulder. "I know you think it is the height of injustice that I marry as I please, but insist otherwise for you. I know you think me unfair. Think instead that I have given you a chance. I have improved your odds."

Richard shrugs. "I am not a gambler, brother. But I will think on it. That's all I can promise you."

\--

_Baynard Castle  
December 1471_

Duchess Cecily enjoys the tranquility of her household and does not suffer unexpected visitors lightly, even if--especially if--that visitor is the king himself. 

So when Edward is announced on a cold morning, her surprise is overwhelmed by her irritation. It's only through long years of practiced dignity that she's able to greet him as his station demands. 

"Your Grace." Cecily drops a quick curtsey, neither too deep or too shallow. Edward acknowledges her with a quick bow of his head and a kiss on the hand. 

When pleasantries have been exchanged, food and wine offered, and Edward has settled in, she raises an eyebrow in his direction. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"A king cannot visit his mother?" 

Cecily allows herself a small smile. "That is much too innocent, even for you."

"As I cannot dissemble with you, Lady Mother, I shall come straight to it. I need your help."

"Nothing good has ever come of those words."

Edward laughs easily. "I hope this matter will be less of a problem. I need you to speak to Richard."

Cecily's eyebrows disappear under the linen of her widow's barb. "That is...unexpected. He's not usually the troublesome one."

Her son takes a moment to collect himself. "When Richard makes his mind up about something, he can be very determined."

"Ah, yes." Cecily knows well how unbending her youngest son can be. If she thinks hard on it, she can well remember the little boy with the stubborn countenance roaming the halls at Fotheringay. The memory is sharp for being from a lifetime ago, and with it comes a melancholy she has not felt in years. She shakes her head, refusing the grief and turning to face her son's need instead.

"What is it that has Richard so upset he will not yield even to your iron will?" 

Edward lets his mother's pointed jab go with a smirk of approval. "A proposal of marriage." When his mother opens her mouth to respond, he quickly emends. "From Margaret Beaufort." 

"What?" 

Edward laughed. "That was also Richard's reaction."

"Hardly surprising." She watches Edward drain his goblet and hold it out to be refilled. When no cupbearer appears magically at his elbow, he frowns and gets up to pour himself wine from a jug on the sideboard. 

She ignores his wordless comment on her hospitality. "I think Richard's thoughts on marriage run in a different direction."

Edward laughs and nearly chokes on a mouthful of wine in the process. "No need to be quite so coy about it. Everyone knows where his thoughts run. I think even our little cousin Anne knows."

His mother does not share in his joke, and detecting the change in mood, Edward sighs. "Truly, this is as much about Anne as it is about Richard, and it's why I've come to you now."

Cecily nods, hoping this is the rare moment when her thoughts might be in line with her son's. "The girl has been ill used, and I don't want her to be a pawn in your game. I think Richard would be good for her." 

When Edward offers no answer, she continues in the same vein. "They are a good match. They are close in age and already friendly. And she is a Neville."

"Ah, there's the rub, Mother. She's a Neville."

She raises an eyebrow at him, vacillating between curiosity and resentment. "And what is that supposed to mean?" 

"It means trouble, my lady. Because George's wife is also a Neville, and he thinks this entitles him to all of Warwick's wealth and estates."

He puts a hand to his forehead, and for the first time, Cecily sees the fine lines around his mouth, the dark circles under his eyes. Edward had once worn his power lightly, but rebellion and treason have taken their toll, and the strain of his office is clear. She is not often moved to pity, but she has to resist the urge to take Edward in her arms and give him a mother's comfort. 

"I am king, but my kingdom is not safe. There are still those who speak treason, who wish me ill."

"George would never--"

"Wouldn't he?" Edward asks, a hard edge creeping into his voice. He shakes his head. "George is not brave enough to come against me on his own. But he is fool enough to be led by others.

"If I am to survive, if York is to survive, then I must keep George sweet. I thought to fly Richard at him to keep him in check, but that would be like prodding a wounded lion."

He sighs. "I cannot afford the risk. For the moment, George must believe he has won. The threat of Richard marrying Anne and taking her inheritance must be stifled." 

He meets her gaze, direct and honest. He is not easily gainsaid, not even by his own mother. "Speak to Richard, Mother. Tell him he will be rewarded in other ways. Promise him, if you must, that Anne will come to no harm. But make him see he cannot have her."

\--

_Woking Hall, Surrey  
December 1471_

"What does he look like? This Richard of Gloucester?" Margaret twirls the quill absently, a little disconcerted that she cares. She's no vain maiden, after all. "Like his brother, I suppose."

"No. Like his father." 

Margaret startles and drops the quill. She'd only seen the Duke of York once, when just a girl being presented at court for the first time. Even then, before he'd been at odds with those around him, he'd been a commanding presence, regal and ruthless in equal measure. She shivers at the thought of a York son who is like the father. Still, he's only a younger son...

She schools herself to indifference and glares at Bray. "And?" 

Bray shuffles his feet in the hesitant and nervous manner Margaret finds so annoying. "He asks if he could meet with you, my lady. In private."

Margaret nods and then waves Bray off in dismissal. But the man lingers, forcing her to ask him his mind. 

"I did not put the...other matter to Duke Richard, my lady." 

"What other matter?" 

Bray shuffles his feet again, his boots scraping vexingly across the stone floor. "Of your saintly virtues."

"Ah. And why not? I thought to use them to distinguish my suit, in truth."

Bray lets out a breath of nervous laughter. "Certainly, my lady. But the duke is a young man still, and I thought he might take it ill."

She raises an eyebrow at him, surprised that he would boldly speak of such things to her. On the other hand, his particular brand of honesty has always served her well in the past. 

"Very well, Bray. You may tell the Duke of Gloucester that I will receive him here at Woking on Friday next." She picks up her quill and ponders the issue a moment longer. "Convey to him, if you can, that I intend only a short audience."

\--


	2. Agreement in Principle

**Agreement in Principle**

Marriage is a matter of more worth  
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship.

_Coldharbour  
December 1471_

The day dawns cold and dreary, a perfect mirror for Richard's mood. Although Christmas cheer is all over London, he finds little joy for himself. He'd been inclined to ignore Edward's request, or to remind his brother that he, a grown man, could marry just as he pleased. But while he could fend off his brother alone, the combined onslaught of Edward and his mother proves too difficult a battle. It had been like being pummeled with a mailed fist sheathed in the softest velvet and they'd quickly brought him to heel. 

The ember of resentment still burns bright in his heart though. He's bound himself to Edward, for loyalty and for love, and yet, the demands made on him grow heavier by the day. Meanwhile, George--the treasonous fool!--is rewarded for his treachery with lands, wealth and the right to do exactly as he damn pleases. 

The curses on his tongue are banished by the distant church bells tolling _Terce_. He's reminded that a good man is penitent and humble, that it is not for him to remind George of the king's generosity. That is a task for another man, or perhaps another day. The one at hand is, unfortunately, far more bitter. 

He pulls up at the gates to George's fabulous London estate, one of the many advantages his brother has married into. He throws the reins to the liveried stable boy who bows with more deference than ever before. Though Richard is too polite to remark on it, his squire sniggers and mutters under his breath that their welcome is far warmer than usual. 

His arrival is announced and as he's ushered into Coldharbour's grand hall, his brother bustles in. He's resplendent in a dark silk doublet and fur-lined cape. For all his other faults, George wears his station well, and his generosity as lord and host is unstinting. Not even Richard is spared an obsequious and overly elaborate welcome. 

"My brother of Gloucester honours our house with his presence. Why do you all stand around and stare when you should be off to see to his comfort?" George bristles with fake indignation and his retainers scurry off to do his bidding. A few minutes later, they're joined by a curious Isabel. 

"Richard. It's good to see you." The embrace she gives him is friendly, but her eyes are full of worry. "You've been gone so long. How are things in the north?" 

When Richard does not answer, George claps him gently on the shoulder. "Yes, do tell us of the north. You can understand Isabel's concern. It is her home, after all," he adds pointedly, his meaning not lost on anyone. 

Richard ignores the bait and instead exchanges pleasantries with Isabel. "You look well, sister. I should tell you that Lady Scrope asked after you and your lady mother." 

"Did she? That was kind of her. I shall write to her as soon as I can," Isabel says, with cautious interest. She and Richard chat for a few minutes as a servant pours wine. Their conversation is peppered with northern names and old gossip. George wears a stiff smile, hiding his dismay at being excluded from the polite chatter. He waves dismissively in Isabel's direction and she falls silent. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure, brother?" 

Richard sighs and takes a long swig of his wine. "I don't want any trouble, but I'd like a word with Anne." His hackles are already up and he's prepared to resist George in any way necessary. But to his surprise, his brother is still playing the gracious host. 

"By all means. I'm sure Anne will be happy at a visit from her favorite cousin, especially now that you have such news to share with her."

Richard balks. His first instinct is to feign ignorance and evade George's attempt to bait him, but it wars with a desire for the truth, and in the end, he cannot contain himself. "How did you find out?" 

George laughs, a great roaring sound that puts Richard acutely in mind of Edward. Have his brothers always been so alike, or is George actively aping the king? Neither thought brings much comfort. 

"Listen, Richard. I know you think I have an entire wasp's nest of spies at court, but I don't. Even if I did, this news would not have come from them. Edward told me."

"He did?"

"Yes. In fact, he asked me if I might consider negotiating the marriage settlement with Lady Margaret." 

Richard bristles and squares his shoulders in defiance. "I assure you that I'm perfectly capable of--"

"Peace, brother. I meant no insult. It's just not seemly for a man to argue the terms of his own marriage, so I thought to help you protect your interests."

George seems poised to say more, but wisely, he decides against it. "As for Anne, I have no objection to you meeting her at all. I'll have her sent for, if you're willing to wait."

Isabel casts a sidelong eye at George before speaking. "I'll tell you what, Richard. I'll take you to her. Anne likes to take air in the morning, so she'll be in the gardens." She stands, prompting him to his feet and giving him her arm. 

When they are out of George's hearing, she stops him and gives him a serious, worried look. "Be gentle with Anne. I know I don't have to tell you, but she has not been easy in spirit this past year. I would not have her wounded again."

"Isabel, I--"

"She doesn't know yet, Richard. I'm sorry I did not prepare her for this. When you tell her, give her your understanding and your patience. She deserves that much." She takes her hand from his and turns away as they reach the gardens, leaving him to this most painful exercise. 

\--

Anne loves the gardens at Coldharbour. They are much grander in the spring, when the flowers are in full bloom and the air is heavy with the scent of roses and apple blossom. In the winter, the trees are bare and the greensward is a mottled brown, but the air is crisp and smells of possibility. 

She wraps her cloak tight around her when a gust of wind pulls at it. She turns back towards the manor only to see Richard striding toward her. She smiles and waves him over, thrilled to see him. 

Richard is her friend and she remembers him with the warmth of a child's memory, only blurred by distance and tragedy. In time, she hopes he will be more than a friend. Once she would have blushed at Richard as her suitor, but that was long ago. Now the chess board of her life has been reset, and it is squarely her move. Richard, newly appointed his brother's man in the north and basking in the light of royal approval, is the only one with enough power and influence at court to speak on her behalf, to win back the inheritance George has so unfairly appropriated to himself. She's not concerned that Richard is pressing his own advantage through her. After all, there is always a price to pay, and if returning home to Middleham lies in the balance, then Anne has made a good bargain. 

She cannot deny the girlish excitement his arrival brings though. Richard makes no more than polite small talk with her, careful not to reveal his heart. But a man is more than the words he speaks, and in his eyes, Anne sees the promise of a future, and in his rare laughter, she hears the hopeful echo of the boy he'd once been. 

She grins and holds her hands out to him as he approaches. "Richard, how nice to see you."

He gives her an uncertain smile in return, and she notes the little wrinkles of care around his eyes. A spark of worry pricks at her as he bows politely over her hand. "Anne. You are well?" 

"Well enough, all things considered." She slips her hand into the crook of his arm and lowers her voice to a whisper. "How did you convince George to let you see me? He was so angry the last time."

"It was surprising. Or not surprising, considering the situation."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you setting me a riddle?" She laughs. "I'm not as bad at riddles as I used to be, you know." 

He laughs too, but it does not touch his eyes. Her worry is now a tongue of flame looking for purchase.

Richard hesitates a little as they turn the corner in the gardens. "Anne, I have some news."

"Your news is quite old, Richard." 

"It is?" She laughs at his confusion. "I mean, you are not angry?" 

"Why would I be angry?" She meets his eyes evenly. "It is true that I find it difficult to see another in my father's place in the north. But I am glad it's you, Richard. I can't think of anyone more suited to it."

To her surprise, this answer does not please him. His lips are tight and she can see the muscles in his jaw twitching with the effort of maintaining control. "Oh, Anne." 

"What is it?" She tightens her hold on his arm until he flinches and pulls away. "Tell me, Richard. Is it...ill news?" 

"I think you will take it ill, yes." 

Anne's worries fan themselves into a raging blaze. She stiffens, bracing herself for the inevitable word that her mother is dead, that she is to be imprisoned, or that George is sending her off to a lonely abbey. But she is unprepared for the words that come out of Richard's mouth. 

"I am to be married."

She knits her brows together in confusion, the words not quite sensible to her mind. 

"The king has arranged my marriage," he repeats without conviction. 

"What?" she asks dully as the pieces began to fall into place. Has Edward found his brother a wife, a strategic alliance with France perhaps?

"I am betrothed." He says it as if he's pronouncing his own death sentence. "To Lady Margaret Beaufort."

"What? No! What a ridiculous notion. She's...old," She struggles for words. "And she's ugly and fanatical. How is this even--"

"What does all that matter?" Richard hisses at her. "It is what the king wants, and that is the end of it." 

The raging fire of worry in Anne's chest dissolves into a ball of heat in her stomach and sets her blood boiling. She turns on him, her cheeks red with rising anger. "You are not a child to be so led, even by the king. You are a grown man and you are entitled to marry as you wish." 

"No. I am sworn to my brother. I must do as he wills. In all things."

She scoffs. "Oh, yes. Loyalty binds you. And what of your loyalty to others?" She hesitates for a moment, scrubbing at her eyes to keep away the tears. "Your loyalty to me?" 

He bristles. "To you? I made you no promises."

"No, of course not. You were very careful not to commit yourself, weren't you? How clever you are, and how foolish I am."

"Anne--"

She cuts him off before he can explain. "No, spare me your reasons. I don't know why the king would force you to marry Margaret Beaufort, and I'm not sure I care. All I know is that I'm left all alone now." 

Anne tries to swallow around the lump in her throat. But when he tries to speak, the words will not come, and defeated, she slumps her shoulders and cries. She is now utterly at George's mercy. With her mother still locked away in sanctuary, Anne will surely be shunted off to a nunnery with a corrody to spend her days in quiet prayer. Or worse, if George decides otherwise, he'll marry her off to some poor man who will be grateful for a well-born wife, too grateful to ever stand up for her against the mighty Duke of Clarence. 

"Oh, Anne, please don't cry." He draws her against his chest and runs a soothing hand over her hair. For a moment, Anne is mollified by his kindness. The arms around her are strong and Richard's touch is tender, his concern real. Her desire for him is sharp, embroidered with her own longheld affection, and she wants nothing but to sink into his embrace. But the comfort is fleeting. Her anger recedes, but in its place, she feels the dull ache of disappointment. 

She pulls out of his arms and scrubs at her tears with the back of her sleeve. "You have disappointed me. I put my faith in you, and you have shattered that faith. I am destroyed now, and for what? So that the sons of York may find cheer in my misfortune?" 

"No, Anne. I do not seek your misery, and neither does Edward." He sighs. "I told you I would take care of you, and that has not changed. I will see that you are safe, Anne, in whatever way I can."

She shakes her head, determined not to give any ground. There was a time when his words would have been enough for her, but as long as he is the king's man, he will never be hers. The sad realization brings a new round of tears she's forced to blink away. "No, Richard. You are free of any obligation to me. Have no fear on my account. I will find my own way."

\--

_Woking Hall_  
February 1472

Margaret is a small, neatly made woman. For the better part of the last few months, she has worn the dark colors of mourning and a severe widow's barb. But on this occasion, her lady's maid, Elizabeth, has convinced her to make an effort. Her hair has been braided with gold ribbon and she has cast aside her dark woolen garments for a plum-colored dress edged with blue sarcenet, a faint approximation of York's banners. For a moment, she feels a pinprick of guilt, remorse at abandoning the great legacy of her own house. But she dismisses it with a slight shake of the head. After all, a dress is small sacrifice to achieve her own ends. 

She takes the handmirror from Elizabeth with a grunt and gives her face a critical examination. She is not vain and willingly admits she is no great beauty, but Margaret does not count false modesty among her many virtues either, so she finds her reflection passably pleasing. The ribbons in her hair, however, offend her and she picks and snatches at them until Elizabeth grabs her hands. 

"I don't hold for such nonsense. Why can't I just wear the barb? I am still a widow."

Elizabeth patiently undoes the ribbons and begins to braid Margaret's long dark hair again. "Yes, but you are to marry again, and the Duke may wish a pretty bride."

Margaret scoffs. "My gold and my land are pretty enough for him, I'm sure. It hardly matters how I look."

"No indeed," Elizabeth agrees. "I'm sure it won't matter at all, but you should always be your best. After all," she says, tying off the braid, "you've put out all the good pewter for him, haven't you?" 

Margaret allows this is true. In an effort to impress Richard of Gloucester, she's had Woking Hall cleaned from roof to floor. The wooden panels gleam with new oil, and only her best tapestries and plate are on display. She's not entirely sure why she's gone to the trouble. The marriage settlement is in place, and this first meeting with Richard is but a formality now. 

She sighs, remembering the incessant haggling of Richard's lawyers, all overseen by his odious brother of Clarence. After a week of squabbling over various details, it had been decided that Richard would enjoy a life estate in all of Margaret's properties in exchange for an annuity paid out of his own estates as jointure. Then there had been the matter of the dispensation. Not only were she and Richard cousins, but her late husband had also been Richard's cousin. Securing the dispensations would require a tidy sum of money, and this had led to more haggling until the king had stepped in and announced he would send to Rome for the dispensations personally. 

That Richard had come out well ahead in the bargain rankles, but Margaret knows this is the price of marriage for a widow of her years. Her ultimate interest is not in wealth anyhow, but in the power this marriage will bring. As the Duchess of Gloucester, she will be higher than ever before, closer to the throne than ever before. 

Her hair finally braided to her satisfaction, she fidgets nervously with her dress as she waits for Richard to be shown in. She has no idea what to expect. She knows little of the sons of York, but what she has seen is not to her liking. The king and Clarence are dandies, far more fond of their clothes and jewels than even some women at court. Margaret finds their frivolity sinful and prays that God should remind them of their prideful vanity. 

With her thoughts running in this direction, she is not quite prepared for the man who is shown into her salon. There is nothing of either of his brothers in Richard of Gloucester. He is richly dressed after the latest fashions, but the colours are sober and his only other adornment is his ducal collar. This he wears with the arrogant entitlement his house is known for, and Margaret bristles a little. In another world, in another time, she would be a princess and he'd be forced to bow and scrape to her. Instead, she curtseys low and mutters a reluctant greeting. 

"Your Grace. Welcome to Woking Hall."

He takes her hand and bows over it, polite and correct. "My lady. Your home is lovely."

"Yes, thank you. Parts of it are in need of repair, but the hall itself has been fully rebuilt. Would you like to see the grounds?" 

He nods and they take a turn through the gardens, Elizabeth and Richard's groom following at a polite distance. Margaret talks about the manor's history and the renovations she's made, surprised that Richard is an attentive listener. His genuine interest in the house perturbs her, but she dismisses his concern as mere self-interest. After all, once they marry, Woking will be his. 

They make their way back into the house, and Margaret listens with polite indifference as he tells her of his duties in the north. There is much talk of reivers and scouts and raids on the Scottish borders, and she feigns interest, nodding at the appropriate places. 

They sit down to sup and Richard expresses polite admiration for the arras displayed above her table. He sips at his cup. "This is excellent wine, Lady Margaret."

"Sir Henry was fond of a good vernage. I have altogether too much of the stuff."

They eat the rest of the meal in silence and as the servants clean away the board, she signals for Richard's goblet to be refilled. He's standing at one of the hall's windows, a studious look on his face. 

"I think the moat could use some repairs. It is not a very good defense right now."

"Perhaps. But it has been many years since my castle was stormed."

Richard sputters and nearly chokes on his wine. He offers her a smirk in apology. Margaret frowns until the meaning of her own words dawns on her. She flushes a deep scarlet, ashamed by the insinuation. 

"I don't like the jest, my lord."

He is appropriately contrite. "I'm sorry. I intended nothing by it, but I was caught off guard."

She purses her lips in disapproval. "I'm a woman much given to prayer. I do not have the inclination for such jokes or frivolity."

"So I have heard. Your man Bray spoke highly of your piety." He smiles at her as if he's made her a grand compliment. "Indeed, on that note, I have a gift for you." He reaches into a pocket in his doublet and withdraws a slim and much-used volume. 

She hesitates. "A gift, my lord?" 

"A token. As we are to be married, it seemed right that I should give you something."

Trained by her mother to be impeccably polite, Margaret cannot reject a gift given with good will. Her hands tremble a little as she takes the book from him. It's a copy of Mecthilde of Hackeborn's _Special Book of Grace_ , a strange thing for a young man to read, especially a worldly and battle-hardened man like Richard. 

"Where did you get this?" she asks, her indifference forgotten.

"It was a gift from my mother some years ago. I thought you might enjoy it, given your inclinations." She looks up to see if he is mocking her, but there is no sign of it on his face or in his eyes.

For the first time since his arrival, Margaret is genuinely pleased. "I thank you, my lord. I have not had the pleasure of reading St. Mechtilde before. It is a handsome gift." She sets the book gently down on a table. "I wish only that I had something to give you in return." 

"You already have." The statement is simple and final. "You must know I could not achieve the things I want in the north without your considerable wealth, Lady Margaret."

She inclines her head in wordless agreement. 

He holds his goblet out for more wine and when it is refilled, he fixes her with his eyes. "But tell me, why did you wish this match?" 

She traces a finger along an old groove in the table, unsure how much she can share with him. At length, she gives him an evasive answer. "Life can be difficult for widows, my lord. Even those of us who are wealthy and fortunate are preyed upon by those who would not scruple to harm us." 

Richard flinches at her words, making her regret the falsehood. But a moment later, he raises an eyebrow at her. "And now you have told me the pleasant lie, perhaps you will do me the honour of the truth instead."

She bristles at the accusation. "I do not lie."

"No, your words are true enough, but they are not the reason you wish to marry me." He sits down across from her at the table. "Let me be plain with you. We are to be married, and it would be good if we were to reach some sort of an accord. I would have you be honest with me. In all our dealings." 

"Very well. I am in need of a favour from the king, one he is not likely to grant except to the closest of his men. You are as close to the king as any, and you are unmarried. Is that not reason enough?"

"What sort of favour?"

She stares at him for a long while, trying to take his measure. But his face is inscrutable and she cannot determine if he is an ally or an enemy, at least not yet. Still, the truth speaks for itself so she admits it. "I want my son to return to England and be restored to what is his." 

"The crown?" He says the words blithely, confident that a Lancastrian heir to the throne is of no consequence. Margaret bristles, and for just a moment, she hates Richard of Gloucester as much as she has hated any man. 

"No. Only the honour of Richmond. It is his by right." She meets his eyes evenly, unafraid of the consequences. "Of course, he is a proper heir to the throne. He is the heir of Lancaster, of noble blood, as Plantagenet as you are, and--"

He cuts her off. "No, my lady, he is not. But I fear it would be impolitic to debate the matter any further."

He rises and signals his man to fetch his horse. "I take my leave. I am told the dispensations will arrive after Lent. You may plan the nuptials according to your own convenience.

"As to your son, do not press this matter now. But, in time, if the matter warrants, the king will hear you, I think." Richard puts on his hat and cape and bows theatrically at her, a triumphant smile on his face. She is tempted to slap him but curtseys instead. 

"I bid you good day, my lord. Do come again."

\--

March 1472  
Westminster

Edward drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, impatient. He has spent much of the morning hearing grievances from various supplicants and the effort has exhausted him. He longs to pour a draught of wine down his gullet and be attended upon by some lovely buxom courtier. Indeed, there is one he's had his eye on for some time...

He comes out of his reverie when the page clears his throat to announce the last supplicant, but the man stumbles as he begins to read the name and looks up at his king in panic. 

"Well, get on with it," Edward commands. 

The man bows and wipes a bead of sweat off his brow before calling out the name in a hushed tone. "Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester." 

Edward nearly falls out of his chair in shock, and around him, the assembled courtiers begin to murmur and whisper. Hastings, who has been asleep through much of the morning's business, suddenly comes awake. "Well, Your Grace, that is passing strange."

"Indeed." Edward is thoughtful for a moment and then throws his head back in laughter, more annoyed than amused. "Then again, my brother has always had a flair for the dramatic." He waves at the page to send the supplicant in. 

Richard walks into the room in plain clothes and takes a knee immediately. 

"Gloucester," Edward says, without any of his usual warmth. "To what do I owe the honour?" 

Richard startles at his brother's lack of courtesy. He bristles and squares his shoulders in protest, but remembering where he is and who he addresses, he tries to remain calm. "I am here to pray for your favour, Your Grace."

Edward hisses in irritation. "You could not have sought me out privately? Why the show of coming here and asking in public? Because you think I won't refuse you?" 

"I think it would be more politic if you--"

"It is not for you to say what I should do. I refuse your request."

Richard gapes at him. The other courtiers are silent but listening with rapt attention, craning their necks to see and hear this sudden squabble between two sons of York. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask," he sputters, forgetting the usual forms of courtesy. 

"It does not matter what you ask. I'm entitled to refuse you because I am displeased you did not bring the matter to me in private."

Richard sighs, deflated by Edward's unexpected anger. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I did not want to trouble you in your private hours as--"

"Spare me." 

Richard falls silent. He is still on his knees, and courtesy requires that Edward let him up, if only because he is one of the highest ranking peers in the realm. But his brother is content to leave him kneeling, and he cannot gainsay the king. So he waits, brooding, as he balls his hands into tight fists and his fingernails dig into the flesh of his palm. 

Abruptly, Edward's mood changes. He gives Richard a hand and lifts him to his feet, giving him a genial clap on the shoulder. He drops his voice to a whisper. "I don't know what's come over me, brother. I think I am over tired this morning.

"Come see me later. We will dine and you may ask me whatever you wish." 

Confused, Richard nods. "Of course, Sire."

\--

By the time Richard returns to the palace, the sun is low in the sky and the king has recovered his usual good cheer. Two flagons of his favorite wine and a bout of athletic lovemaking with his favorite mistress have done the trick. He feels like a new man, at once more generous and discerning than before. 

Richard, on the other hand, looks worried. He's chewing his lip in that nervous way of his, and Edward is sharply reminded of the boy his brother used to be. They've both lived a lifetime of pain and loss since then. He laments that he has shown this younger brother less affection that he deserves. 

"Richard, I'm sorry. I should not have been angry with you. But I don't like drama and I don't like to be tested. If you want something, you only need ask." 

"And I will have it?" 

Edward chuckles. "I didn't say that." He pours wine for both of them and sips slowly. "I would accuse you of presuming too much, but you are not usually like this."

"We live in unusual times."

"True. So what is this grand favour you want from me?" 

"Anne Neville."

Edward's eyes widen in shock. "We have talked about this before. You cannot have her. Besides, you can hardly take her to wife when you're already betrothed to another."

"Not as my wife. Give me her wardship. I will protect her, return her to the home she once loved." 

The king raises an eyebrow at him. "And what of George? Is that not his responsibility?" 

Richard scoffs. "Perhaps. But Anne is unhappy there. I think he is more her jailer than her guardian. She has no freedom, no money, nothing that a widow of her rank is entitled to.

"You will not release her mother, and you will not restore her to her share of the inheritance. At least release her from George's clutches."

Edward balks. "You make it sound as if he'd harm her. Would he?" 

"No, I don't think so. There are depths to which even George cannot sink." Richard shuffles his feet, hesitating. "But I made her a promise that I would take care of her, and I would not break it just because my circumstances have changed."

"Badly done, then. You were not free to promise her anything without my permission, and she should not have relied on your words." He gives Richard an amused glance. "You want to take care of her, do you?"

Richard looks uncomfortable but meets his brother's gaze evenly. "I am fond of her, yes, and I have an obligation to protect her. I promised her."

"I want to help you, brother. But this is a foolish thing you ask. Putting Anne anywhere near you is a bit like throwing a lit torch into a hay barn, isn't it?" 

Richard bristles. "I assure you my intentions are entirely honorable. I would never--"

"Never? That is a very long time, Richard. Who is to say when the urge will come upon you? What if you are alone with her on some dark, cold night in your northern keep? What if she comes to you warm and willing? Better men than you, than me, have given in to their most ordinary desires. Best not to tempt yourself."

"I would not be tempted. I'd be a married man."

Edward laughs heartily. "What difference does that make? Every married man makes vows and breaks them."

"I'm not like other men."

"Don't be such a sanctimonious prig, Richard. It's your least worthy quality." Edward hears his brother murmur in protest, but nothing more. 

"Besides, even if you are a saint, tongues will wag. The daughter of the Earl of Warwick deserves better than to be seen as Gloucester's mistress, don't you think?" 

"Yes," Richard says simply. Edward takes a long look at his brother's face. His lips are tight with suppressed anger, but the eyes are shuttered and he cannot discern just what Richard might be thinking. His brother's anger is cheaply bought, but his goodwill is dear to Edward. 

"Poor Anne. She's suffered so much, at so many hands. Even if I can't help you, brother, perhaps I can help her."

Richard is startled by this sudden peace offering, and Edward is pleased he can still surprise him. Richard stammers. "How...what do you intend?" 

"I have not yet decided, but I think you're right that she needs to be free of George. I will try my best. That is my promise to you."

"Thank you." On an impulse, Richard kneels and kisses his brother's hand. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Yes. Remember to spread the word of my expansive generosity. It is, after all, what good kings are made of," Edward adds, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. 

\--


	3. A Marriage of Minds

**A Marriage of Minds**

"Get thee a good husband,  
and use him as he uses thee."

_July 1472_  
Westminster

She stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. Margaret is exhausted after a long day. Elizabeth had woken her up at the crack of dawn, insisting that she prepare for the ceremony. Margaret had protested all the fuss, arguing she'd been married before and it was unseemly to be so concerned over dresses and hair. But her complaints had fallen on deaf ears. Elizabeth had muttered something about pride and kept on pushing and prodding until Margaret was dressed to her satisfaction. 

Then there had been the long journey to the abbey. From one of her homes outside London, they'd passed through the muddy streets of Eastcheap, the air high with the stench of offal and nightsoil, Margaret hating every minute of it. Yet when they'd left the narrow alleys and market lanes behind and ridden along the Thames, with its fringe of stately homes, Margaret had sensed a city bursting with power and influence, a place were lives could be made and ended, a place where everything was possible. She'd been buoyed by this new hope and had ridden hard the rest of the way. 

At Westminster, they are whisked away to St Stephen's Chapel almost as soon as they arrive. The wedding is a solemn affair, an old priest muttering the liturgy as they say their vows, Margaret as if by rote and Richard quietly but with confidence. It is over quickly, and Margaret finds a bit of time for prayer and contemplation before the celebration feast hosted by the king at his palace. 

Margaret worries a bit of her dress with her hands, nervous about what must come now that she and Richard are wed. The marriage bed itself does not frighten her, but she has enough experience and knowledge to know it is not always a place of affection and comfort. It is, after all, a place where a wife must submit to her husband's desire, and submission does not come easily to her. 

She shivers, realizing too late that she's drawn attention to herself. Richard turns to her, a question in his eyes. 

"Are you all right?" 

These are almost the first words he's spoken to her all day. "Yes, my lord. But it has been a long day. Perhaps I may retire now." 

Richard's lips are set in a firm disapproving line. "No, you may not, my lady. Not until the king gives you leave."

Margaret sighs. She has been away from court for long enough to forget the old protocols and she bristles at being made to wait. Richard hears her murmur of complaint and chuckles softly. "A lady of your advanced age should have more patience."

"My advanced age?" 

"Shall I put it to the king that you are eager to be done with the feast?" 

She colors and gives him a baleful look. He shrugs in muted apology and drops his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry. The king will want to call an end to the festivities before long. He's had a lot of wine and the queen looks none too happy about it." He gestures in the direction of the king's table, where Edward is laughing rather too loudly while his wife sits timidly by, her lips pulled into a stiff smile that does not reach her eyes. 

Just as Richard had said, Elizabeth nudges her husband and they have a quick, testy exchange of words before the king turns back to his assembled guests. He lifts a glass in Richard's direction. 

"My lords and ladies, I think it's time we congratulated our newlyweds and sent them off on their way." He winks in their general direction. "I would not keep my brother of Gloucester from the important business that awaits him, though I think he intends to spoil our sport by making this a quiet affair."

Margaret quails at the innuendo. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Richard is none too pleased either. Still, she inclines her head politely in the king's direction and joins her new husband in raising a glass to their gracious host. 

"By your leave, Your Grace." Richard offers Margaret his hand. She hesitates a moment before taking it and rising with him. As one, they bid the king a respectful farewell and leave the hall. 

Once they are out of sight and safely within the confines of the rooms she's been given at the palace, he bows gently over her hand. "I bid you good night, my lady."

Margaret eyes widen and she stammers in confusion. "My lord, are we not...I mean, you are not staying?" 

Richard looks contrite. "Forgive me. I should have kept you informed. I am to go north to hear the king's justice, and as I must ride at dawn, I thought it best to retire." 

Margaret begins to protest, but her thoughts are ill-formed and after a few moments of consternation, she gives up. "Very well, Your Grace. I wish you a safe journey." She dips him a quick curtsey and turns away. When she's certain he's gone, she leans heavily against the door and sighs, unsure if she is relieved or disappointed to be left alone on her wedding night. 

\--

_To Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Lord High Constable, be this letter taken._

_My lord, I recommend myself to you and thank you for the pleasure of your last letter._

_Blessed be God, I send you good tidings. We have a good and plenty harvest of golden fruit and early grain in our estates and we hope the same is true in our nothern lands. We have reports too that our new crops of wheat and barley will be brought in by Michaelmas. I have been to visit our lands in the east and, much to my displeasure, many of the fields were not properly furrowed. I have put it to my tenants that they must correct these faults or see a sharp increase in their rents in the future._

_The king's court boasts a good harvest as well. You will have heard of the birth of another son to your sister of Suffolk. He is to be named Edmund in honour of your York ancestor. There are other new crops as well, chief among them the lady Anne Neville. She is newly come to the palace, released from the care of her sister of Clarence and now under the gentle watch of the king instead. I believed she was to be one of the queen's ladies, but that arrangement apparently did not suit. Instead, she has been charged with the household of the young Princess Bess and her little sisters. This is well done, for those young ladies are much in need of a strong hand to guide them, and I think Lady Anne, being of high birth and sound wisdom, is well suited to life in the royal nursery._

_I was most pleased to be called on by your lady mother this Sunday past. She is a woman of great strength and discipline and I pray I may be as she is one day. We spoke at length about the teachings of St. Monica, who was blessed to be a pious but long-suffering mother to her son. I am reminded that my own son is not with me, and I long for nothing more than to be brought into Our Lord's Grace as St Monica ultimately was, so that I may be reunited once more with my son. Your aid and comfort in this regard would be of great benefit to me, my lord. I beseech you to speak to the King your brother on my behalf._

_The Holy Trinity keep you in governance. Written at Woking Hall this fifteenth day of August, 1472, by Margaret, Duchess of Gloucester._

\--

_To the right worshipful and my very good Duchess Margaret._

_My dear lady, I recommend myself most heartily to you and ask after your well-being._

_I am in your debt for the news from court. I had not hoped to make you my ears and eyes in London, but I am grateful that you have taken up this task, and will thank you to watch and listen in future, for it will be to our mutual aid and comfort to have knowledge of court, whatever be the nature of your tidings._

_As for the north, it is a task much larger than I first thought. Loyalties here are inconstant and spread thin, moving from Percy to Neville to Lancaster to York in barely the time it takes for the seasons to turn. The king's justice is hard won here, yet there is strength too, in these sensible people who live simply and close to God._

_It pleases me much to tell you that the minster at York is now complete and shortly to be consecrated. The church is magnificent and as grand a testament to the greatness of our Lord God as exists anywhere in the land. I entreat you heartily to come north so you may see it with your own eyes and bask in His glory._

_As Michaelmas nears, the north readies for harvest, though the chill here sets in early and the grain must be brought in soon. When my duties here are done, I may yet return to court. If God wills it, I will see in the Yuletide at the hand of the king my brother._

_May Jesu have you in His keeping. Written this tenth day of September 1472, at my castle in Penrith._

\--

_December 1472  
Eltham Palace_

Christmas is a strange affair at court. Edward and Elizabeth have lost a child, the little babe Margaret. Richard finds the mood appropriately sombre, with attire and the usual pageantry of the season muted to match the family's grief. 

Nevertheless, when Queen Elizabeth appears before the court, she is resplendent in red and green, as beautiful as ever and completely surrounded by a wall of her kin. Her sisters, her brothers, and her two sons preen like peacocks and bask in the glory of their nearness to the king.

Richard bristles, prompting a soft chuckle from Margaret who slips into the seat next to him, almost unnoticed. 

"My lady," he whispers. "You are well?" 

"Well enough, my lord. And you?"

"A bit tired, as I only arrived this morning."

"And just in time to see the rivers running so high," she says pointedly. "I worry we may be in for a flood."

Richard laughs, enjoying the banter. They have reached an arrangement of sorts, where they exchange conversation and gossip and when he is away, frequent letters as well. But there is no real affection between them, nothing that would suggest a true marriage. This state of affairs suits him and he is not inclined to change it. If Margaret feels otherwise, she has not seen fit to tell him. 

He nudges Margaret and points to the dais where the queen is seated and where a crowd is beginning to gather. "Perhaps my brother of Clarence can stem the tide?" 

George, newly arrived at court, is dressed in finery that rivals even the king, but even he is not the center of attention this time. It is Isabel who commands the room, adorned in the green and gold of the season, with a hand resting protectively over her belly, signaling the good tidings to come. The queen's greeting, though impeccably polite and correct, seems just a bit sour. 

Richard raises an eyebrow in Margaret's direction. Her letters had not mentioned Isabel's condition. 

She frowns. "I did not know, though I am not often at court--"

Her words are cut off by a peal of laughter from near the king, and when Richard turns his attention back to the dais, he sees her. 

Anne is ferrying the two oldest princesses to their mother, leading the girls by the hand. She is glowing. She's dressed in dark, rich velvet that suits her perfectly, and under a shimmering veil, she has gold ribbons threaded through her hair. 

For a moment, he is lost for words. The sight of Anne is unexpected, and not knowing exactly how to react, he gives in to impulse and leaves his table to head in her direction, Margaret all but forgotten.

He is nearly to her when he feels a hand clap on to his shoulder. Edward greets him with his usual cheer, but also a pointed glance in Anne's direction. It is a warning and Richard heeds it with a nod of the head. 

Satisfied, Edward inclines his head politely at his younger brother. "Richard! It is good to see you."

"And you, though I was sorry to hear of your little daughter's passing."

Edward's face falls. "Yes. Our little Margaret was such a happy babe. It has been a terrible blow for Elizabeth." He shakes his head and gives Richard a brilliant smile. "But never mind. Now is the time for cheer. I shall call for music!"

At his signal, the mistrels begin playing and the crowd disperses. Edward invites his little daughter Bess to dance with him, and she claps in glee and giggles as he bows theatrically to her. The courtiers laugh and join in this moment of happiness, shedding their worries for a little while. 

Richard too feels a sudden lightness of heart, a sense that his cares have flown away. Emboldened, his brother's warning forgotten, he approaches Anne and bows, holding out his hand in a silent invitation to dance. 

She hesitates, wary of all the eyes watching them. But a nudge from one of the queen's ladies forces her hand, and not wanting to embarrass him, she curtseys politely and joins him. 

The dance is a basse, and though it is slow and stately, Anne's feet barely touch the ground. As they move through the steps, her veils trailing a gossamer track behind them, the rest of the court clears away, leaving the floor to just the two of them. 

For his part, Richard is entranced. Anne is different, not at all the smiling child of his memory, or even the lost woman he'd rescued at Tewkesbury. When she meets his gaze, she does not falter, and the eyes that look back at his are as brilliant as the stars. There is a faint flush on her face, and he can't remember if she's ever looked lovelier. He cannot tear his eyes away, and when the dance winds down, it seems only natural for him to lead Anne away from the crowd so he can be alone with her. 

By the time they reach the long corridor leading away from the hall, they're giggling and trying to catch their breath. They are in a frivolous mood and neither really stops to think of the consequences when Anne leans close and wraps her arms around Richard's neck. 

He brings a hand to her face, scrubbing at her cheek with a calloused thumb. "Anne," he whispers and bends his head to kiss her. His lips barely graze hers when she puts a hand to his chest and pushes him gently away. 

Her hand is over her mouth and her eyes are wide in shock. His heart sinks and he turns away from her and curses at himself under his breath.

"I...I should go," Anne says shakily. "Bess and Cecily need--"

He panics and grabs her hand and forces her to look up at him. "Anne, don't go yet. I just want...I need to hear that there is hope for me here." 

She pulls her hands away. "What?" When he continues to stare, she shakes her head, appalled. "I cannot imagine what you are thinking, but this cannot be. You are already married, and--"

"That does not matter. Not to me."

Her eyes flash angrily in the dim light. "Of course it matters. Marriage is a sacrament, a sacred bond made before God. You cannot break it just because you wish it."

Richard nods. "Yes, but it is not a proper bond if it is not sealed as a marriage should be. It can be easily undone." 

She gapes at him. "Does Lady Margaret know you plan such a thing?" 

"Of course not. But it is not as if we are attached in any way. We don't even--"

"You think that matters?" She laughs bitterly. "Oh, Richard. How can you be so thoughtless? You married her in the eyes of man and God, and whatever your circumstance, you must honor that." 

"But Anne..." The words die on his lips. He wants to tell her he cares for her, wants her, only her. But it is a pointless salvo, a bluff in the face of the truth. He sighs and asks the question he should not ask. "But what of us?" 

She shakes her head sadly. "No. What never was cannot be now. I am sorry, for you and for myself." She takes his hand and squeezes it gently before letting it go. They both feel the finality of the gesture. "Regret is only for the moment, Richard. It will pass."

"I'm not sure I'll ever--"

She cuts him off. "Yes, you will. You must." She moves away from him and curtseys very properly. "Good night, my lord. I wish you a good Yule."

\--

In the distance, and safely hidden by the shadows, Margaret watches this scene play out, her fascination warring with her disquiet at being cast aside. She feels a sharp pang of regret, as if she's lost a precious thing before she could even really hold it to herself. But it is not in Margaret's nature to wallow in self-pity and she quickly shakes off her sadness and sets herself to finding a solution.


	4. North

**North**

__

"Friendship is constant in all things  
Save in the office and affairs of love."

_Woking Hall_  
February 1473

Margaret slips into the room so quietly that he doesn't see her, not until she clears her throat to get his attention. 

It's clear from her nightclothes and the unbound state of her hair that she's been roused from bed by his arrival. He inclines his head in her direction in mute apology. 

She nods. "I did not know you were coming, or I might have arranged a more appropriate welcome."

"No. I asked them not to disturb you. I would have gone on to London, but there's a storm brewing and my horse shied a bit and threw me off." He notes the look of worry on her face, and he's surprisingly pleased by her concern. He smiles and shrugs, dismissing the injury. "I am unhurt, as is my mount."

"Have you eaten?"

"No, and I'm not hungry, but a bit of wine would go far."

She nods, and with her usual efficiency, she has the kitchens send up wine and whatever is left of the evening's board. She pours the vernage for both of them and waits until Richard finishes his modest supper and reclines in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of the fire. 

"What brings you to London with such haste?" 

Richard sighs and straightens up, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "What else? A summons from the king."

She sips her wine and regards him carefully. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do, but you are wary of telling me." 

He smiles and raises his goblet in apparent concession. "Perhaps. You should be proud that I'm wary."

"I am not your enemy, husband." 

He startles at the word husband. She's never used it before, even in jest. "You are not my friend either."

Margaret has been standing on the other side of the room, but now she moves closer, dropping her robe, and pulling up a chair close to his own. Richard is uneasy, but also curious. He's never really seen her before, not in the way that a man usually sees a woman. His energies have been focused squarely on securing his place, and perhaps a little on securing Anne. But her snub at Christmas still rankles. He's resigned to the knowledge that she will never be his, not as he would like. 

But he's never properly considered his wife before, and he finds himself wrestling with both guilt and unexpected desire. The late hour and her sudden nearness have his mind traveling an untrodden path. He notes for the first time that her hair is as dark as a raven's wing, and when she meets his eyes, they are the color of the Cover on a stormy day. Disconcerted, he drops her gaze. 

Her voice is barely more than a whisper when she speaks again. "I am not your friend, it's true. But I am your wife, and I would be a good wife, not an indifferent one." 

His first thought is to ask her if she has been drinking, but it is not the wine that's brought her here. The air between them crackles with anticipation. He's thrilled by the novelty of it, but he cannot shake his discomfort. 

Sighing, he asks her in a whisper that echoes her own. "What do you want, Margaret?" 

"I am alone," she says simply. "I do not like it." She reaches out to him, her hand shaking as she brings it to rest on his knee. He stares at it with detached awe, suprised and disturbed by this sudden confession. 

After a moment's hesitation, he covers her hand with his own, his fingers curling under hers. His first thought is to erase her touch, to push her away and end what she has tried to begin. It would be the prudent thing to do, for both their sakes. 

But his curiosity overwhelms his good sense. Instead of dropping her hand, he brings her fingers to his lips and kisses them softly. She lets out a tiny gasp, but her eyes never leave his. 

"Are you certain, Margaret?" 

She nods. 

He keeps her hand clasped in his and leans closer, drawn by her eyes and the faint flush of desire creeping up from her neck to her face. "I don't much enjoy being played with."

She laughs, and brings her other hand to his face. "I am in earnest, my lord." Her fingers trail away from his face into his hair, and she tugs at the curls drawing him closer. "And I think you are as well." 

He closes the distance between them and brings his mouth to hers. Her lips are petal soft and when her mouth opens to his, she tastes of wine, of promise. He cannot help the moan that leaves his lips when she deepens the kiss. He pulls her against him and into his lap, committing himself fully to this new beginning. There is no turning back. 

\--

Margaret startles awake, confused by the unfamiliar bed curtains and the furlined counterpane. But memory seeps back slowly, and aided by the luxurious stiffness of her body and the soreness of her loins, she remembers the night before. She sighs in contentment and turns to stretch, only to find Richard watching her from a chair by the bed. 

His gaze is intense, at once frightening and rousing. Disconcerted, Margaret raises an eyebrow at him. "Husband? What is it?"

"I want to know what all this is about." 

She turns away and plays with the fringe on the counterpane, acutely aware of his scrutiny. When she speaks, she cannot help the shyness that creeps into her voice "Why? Was it not well done?" 

"Well enough," he says with a smirk. "But that does not answer my question." 

"We were married in the sight of man and God, my lord. Am I not entitled to your bed?" 

He nods. "Yes. But we were wed months ago. You did not come to me then. Why now?" 

Margaret hesitates. She cannot fault him for doubting her motives, but she does not like being questioned. It would be easy enough to dissemble, to say she came to him out of affection and nothing else. But there is something in his face, in the serious grey-green of his eyes that demands an honest answer. Reluctantly, she offers one. 

"I know what is mine by right, and I am zealous of it."

"Ah." He frowns and drops her gaze, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. "So you want to bind me." When he turns back to her, his face is hard but the eyes are soft, almost hopeful. "But now you are bound as well." He smiles wryly. "I think you have made a bad bargain, Meg." 

The nickname surprises her. It is intimate, far too familiar for her taste. She recognizes that this is a test, that he is probing her for the truth. His methods are clever, if not subtle, and this is oddly pleasing to her. "You're right. It is a bad bargain. But it is sealed now, and there is nothing for it." She holds out her hand, inviting him back to bed. 

He does not take it. "Yes. But this is not enough. I want your loyalty. In all things." His gaze is searing, and she cannot help the thrill she feels at this, a frisson of true desire she has not felt in years. Frightened and out of sorts, Margaret stammers a reply. "You have that already, my lord."

"I will hold you to that," he says simply. He takes her hand and brings it quickly to his lips, but does not linger. "I bid you good day, my lady." 

She does not see him again for weeks. 

\-- 

When Richard returns from court, he is exhausted and troubled. 

"Will you not tell me what happened?" she asks as she pours wine for him. He's stretched out in front of the fire and nearly asleep, but he rouses himself to speak to her. 

"There is a great deal to tell, and I'm not sure I have the strength to recount it all just now. But the gist is this: George would like the Countess of Warwick released into his custody." 

Margaret nods. "To attend the birth of her grandchild?" 

"Ha! That is certainly how George put it, but the king our brother had rather a different idea." Richard puts a hand to his temple as if trying to ward off a headache. "I am not particularly fond of Edward's plan, however."

"Oh?" Margaret is not especially interested in hearing of Clarence's misadventures, but news of strife at court is always useful. "What does the king intend?" 

Richard sighs. "He wants to attaint Warwick, Montagu and their wives, so all their estates and wealth will be taken by the Crown. Then he may give back to George as he wills."

"I can see why that would make George unhappy."

He scoffs. "It makes everyone unhappy. If Warwick is attainted, I lose all my holdings in the north, and must rely on Edward's generosity to get any of it back. While I doubt he would be unfair to me, it is a risk I would rather not take."

Margaret frowns, her eyebrows knit together in concentration. The loss of Richard's own estates as a result of the king's caprice is a thing she'd not considered before. She tries to be indifferent, but her tone is wary. "What happens now?" 

"For now, nothing. I think Edward is content with just having threatened George with the alternative of losing everything he has from Isabel. But I don't know what the limits of George's greed are, and I'm much too tired to give it more thought just now." 

Margaret gets up to excuse herself, but lingers, wondering if she should invite him into her bed. At length, she gives up, finding the prospect too frivolous. "I will leave you to your rest then. We can speak on it more in the morning."

"Good night, my lady."

\-- 

Richard and his men rise early, and the noise and bustle in the courtyard rouses Margaret from bed. With Elizabeth's help, she dresses quickly and directs the servants to arrange a quick repast for the men. 

She finds Richard in the salon, deep in discussion with a groomsman. "Richard," she starts, hesitating. "If you will tarry a few days, I'd like to come north with you. If you wish it, that is." 

"Hmm." He turns to face her, his brow furrowed. "What brought that on? You did not want to come before." 

"I changed my mind." 

He laughs. "Of course you did. Come if you like, Margaret." His tone is dismissive though he softens a moment later. "You are my duchess, so you are always welcome." She nods, oddly pleased that he called her his duchess. She smiles broadly at him as she makes mental note of the preparations for the journey.

\--

They are in no particular hurry. Richard offers to stay at Woking another week in order to give her time to prepare. He dispatches most of his retinue to Middleham, keeping just two men behind. While she bustles in and out of rooms, giving instructions and fretting over the arrangements, Richard takes the time to learn about her estates. 

Margaret's receiver, Sir Reginald Bray, is a lean and spare man whose mousy nature is matched only by his brilliant management of her wealth. Despite its small size, Woking is a picture of efficiency, modest in cost and large in profit. This is true of many of Margaret's other holdings as well. A new plan to consolidate his position in the north begins to take shape in Richard's mind. 

Over supper, he asks whether she would consider taking a longer route to Middleham so they can visit her other estates on the way. 

"Why not? Indeed, I'd like to see some of my holdings in Essex as well. It is years since I have been there."

\--

The journey is long and mostly pleasant. They are a small group--only Richard and his two men, and Margaret, her lady, and her groomsman--but they are laden with carts and sumpter horses hauling Margaret's clothes, books and other effects north which slows their journey. In the evenings, they sup at little taverns and settle into the tiny inns that dot the landscape. 

Margaret is surprised to find herself enjoying Richard's company. He makes easy conversation with her, although they skirt around topics that might lead to disagreement. He willingly kneels to pray with her at every turn, and indulges her various requests on the journey. At night, however, he leaves her to her own company, and Margaret is left to wonder. 

This is mostly a relief, but it comes with a surprising sense of disappointment. She feels inadequate to the task of being his true wife, and she does not know how to make him desire her. She is not entirely sure she wants to. She worries that he will turn her into a wanton and drive her to sin. Each night, she prays for the strength to withstand temptation, and each morning, she thanks God for not putting her in its path. 

A few days into the journey, they arrive in the small village of Pleshey, part of Margaret's inheritance from her late husband. The hulking mass of the abandoned castle dominates the landscape, but it is to a smaller manor house that they retire for the night. 

Margaret is out of sorts and irritable, so Richard leaves her alone and takes a walk through the village, lantern in hand. He knows the place only by reputation, but he's fascinated by the echoes of the past that still linger. It has been a generation since anyone of de Bohun descent has been in the place, but their mark is everywhere, whether in the devices carved into plinths and lintels or in the windows of the Church of the Holy Trinity in the village. 

On an impulse, after he's made a circuit of the village, he ducks his head into the chapel. He is not as given to prayer and observance as Margaret, but he loves churches. Once inside, he admires the good stonework and the fine carvings in the wooden misericords. Finally, overcome with honest piety and a sense of awe at the inner workings of a God who is only rarely revealed, Richard kneels at the altar and spends a few moments in quiet contemplation. His meditation is interrupted by the sounds of whimpering from a side chapel.

Curious, he gets up and ventures towards the noise, but is stunned to discover Margaret on her knees, sobbing. He lifts the lantern to alert her to his presence. The light falls on a slab inscribed with a memorial to Henry Stafford. Understanding, he takes a quick knee and crosses himself, honoring a kinsman who fought bravely for his king and died in glory. 

But when he rises, she does not get up with him, still tearful and whimpering. 

"Meg?" He holds his hand out to her, but she doesn't take it, and deciding to leave it alone, he nods and sets the lantern down at her side. "I'll wait for you outside."

Several minutes pass before she joins him. Margaret seems to have recovered, but her eyes are red and bruised, and she has scuffed her cheeks trying to wipe her tears with the back of her sleeve. 

"Are you all right?" He tries to keep his voice calm and gentle. 

"Yes. Just fine. Thank you." She is not in the mood for conversation, so he does not press her and they walk back to the manor in almost total silence. 

As they reach the gatehouse, Richard says the words he'd intended to keep to himself until that minute. "You must have loved him very much."

"No." She inclines her head politely, wishes him good night, and retreats into the house, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

\--

The mood is subdued in the morning as they set off on their journey. Margaret has no energy to deal with Richard's curiosity or even his kindness, so she evades his questions and glances. Eventually, he tires of her manner and rides ahead with his men while she and Elizabeth lag behind at a leisurely pace. 

The day's travel is uneventful, and by evening, they find themselves just outside Cambridge. She and Richard dine at an inn where they are accorded a grand welcome, for it is not often that a royal duke and duchess are guests. The food and wine are superb, and Margaret suspects it is not the establishment's usual fare. 

Later, after they're shown to their rooms, she lets Elizabeth comb out her hair. The brush strokes are harsher than usual, so she stops her lady's hand and frowns at her in the mirror. 

"That's enough."

Elizabeth sighs. "And why are you in such a mood?" 

Margaret bristles. "You are impertinent. You cannot speak to me in such a familiar way." 

"Yes, I can." She raps Margaret's hand gently with the back of the brush. "I'm your kin, I've known you for years and may freely tell you when you are behaving badly."

"What have I done?" 

"You are sullen and moody for no reason. It does not win you friends, and it does not help you make peace with your lord husband."

Margaret hisses at her. "I do not have to make peace with him. We are not at odds."

Elizabeth shrugs, noncommittal. "No, I suppose not. I daresay Duke Richard is too bothered. He probably has others to keep him company."

The sharp retort dies on Margaret's lips. She had not considered all the consequences of her behavior. Elizabeth has the wrong end of the stick, however. Margaret is unconcerned that other women might warm her husband's bed. After all, men are fickle creatures who frequently forget the promises they make before God. But she does not want Richard to turn away from her entirely, and certainly not because she had an emotional breakdown she cannot quite explain. She still needs his help, after all. Outwardly, she feigns indifference. "If you are quite done, Elizabeth, I should like to sleep now."

Elizabeth nods politely and retreats, not bothering to hide the smirk on her face. 

Margaret makes a dismissive noise and waves her away. She climbs into bed and spends the next hour wide awake, her mind working the problem from all angles. Finally, resolved to put an end to her own worry, she puts on her robe and marches down the corridor to Richard's room at the other end of the inn. 

When she ducks her head through the door, she is surprised to discover he is not in bed. Instead, he is at his trestle table, his quill scritching over parchment.

She clears her throat to get his attention. 

"Margaret? What is it?" 

"I wanted to talk to you." She tries to keep an air of polite indifference, but she is shivering, mostly from discomfiture. 

He hesitates, his eyes narrowed and wary. At length, he nods and waves her into the chair by the fire. He leans on the wall by the hearth and watches her steadily. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yes. I'm sorry for how I've been today." 

He smiles wanly. "I will admit I don't understand what came over you. But you are entitled to keep your own counsel, I suppose."

"You asked me a question earlier, and I didn't give you a proper answer." 

"Margaret, you don't--"

"No, let me explain. You said once that we must have an accord between us, that we must be honest. So I will tell you the truth." She clasps her hands together and stares at them, deeply unsure of herself but determined to get the words out. "I don't know if I loved Henry, but he deserved to be loved."

She looks up at Richard, but in the dim light, she cannot make out the expression on his face. He is still though and listening intently, so she takes a deep breath and goes on. "He was always very kind to me. He gave me books, taught me Latin, even encouraged me to ride. I should have been very lost without him." 

Silence stretches out between them, ponderous and heavy. Finally, he breaks it with a sigh. "I met him once. A long time ago. I was only a young lad, but I recall his kindness."

Margaret nods. There is little left to say now, though her heart aches with words she cannot quite give voice to. She has never missed Henry more than in this moment. 

On the edge of tears, she steels herself to speak. "Richard, I have something to ask you."

"Yes?" 

"I need you to promise me something."

"You don't ask for much, do you?" His tone is light now, but the mirth does not touch his eyes and it does not break her melancholy. "Ask then, my lady, before I change my mind." 

She opens her mouth to speak, but the words are stuck to her tongue. There is a sudden lump in her throat, and fresh tears pool in her eyes as she remembers sending Henry off to battle with harsh words and a curse. God saw fit to punish her, sending her husband home, but embittered and near death. She'd sworn then that if she were fortunate enough to marry again, she would not lose another husband to the Almighty's wrath. 

Margaret braces herself and speaks the words quickly, like a much-rehearsed childhood doggerel. "When you ride away, whether to battle or even just to court, promise me you will not go without my leave, without my blessing."

He frowns at her, but asks no questions. "I promise." 

\--

They arrive at Middleham two weeks later, dusty and exhausted. Margaret, still disoriented by travel, is not prepared for the sheer scale of the place. The castle looms large over the dales as they ride towards it, a dark shadow against the afternoon sky. As they approach, one of Richard's men sounds the trumpet, heralding his arrival. 

They ride past the earthenworks of the outer bailey, and Richard signals to his master of horse to raise the drawbridge. She sees the groomsmen doff their hats and bow low to their master as he passes through. This is no more than he deserves, given his station. But this welcome, complete with trumpet fanfares and men-at-arms lining up to be inspected by their lord, is unlike any she's had before, and she cannot help the puff of pride that comes with it. 

As they reach the inner bailey, Richard's household raises his standard to fly high above the castle. The white boar flaps in the wind, signaling to all in the region that the duke is once more in residence. Margaret decides she will fly her own golden portcullis next to Richard's banner and the world will know that a Beaufort reigns here.


	5. Frost and Thaw

_"In love the heavens themselves do guide the state;  
Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate."_

**Chapter 5. Frost and Thaw**

_Middleham Castle  
April 1473_

Margaret runs a slender figure over a column of figures and then fixes the man standing in front of her with a withering gaze. He is Richard's kitchener, inherited from the household of the Earl of Warwick. Indeed, most of Middleham's servants had once called Warwick their lord, and Richard, too busy with other endeavors, had never bothered to replace them. 

"Why have we spent so much on salt in the last year? It is as if our lord Duke has fed an entire army." 

"The salt is ordered special from London, my lady. The travel to the north alone runs rather dear and--"

"Well, why on Earth does it come all the way from London? Do the merchants in York not sell salt?" 

The man bristles. "It is a question of quality. The Countess of Warwick always insisted that we buy the best salt and the best spices for her kitchens."

"Hmmph." Margaret scoffs. "I don't hold for such profligate nonsense." Warwick's grand show of wealth had gotten him killed in battle, and what did his wife have to show for it all but a life of penury immured within the walls of an abbey? What good was money if you could not use it wisely?

"A ham cured with York salt will be no worse than one cured with London salt," she continues. "Master kitchener, I'd like to see you use your wit and skill to trim off a good pound of excess from your spending."

"A whole pound?" The man blanches. "All due respect, my lady, it is not like trimming fat from a side of beef. I cannot see how I can--"

"A pound from the expenses, or a pound from your wages. Whichever you prefer."

Chastised, the kitchener bows. "I shall try my best, my lady." He backs away muttering under his breath. Margaret guesses he is probably cursing her, but this is no worse than anything she'd heard before. She is known for her parsimony, of course, though she is not truly miserly. She's happy to spend gold on things that matter. She likes good plate and rich tapestries, and perhaps the occasional length of foreign brocade for her own clothes. But wealth is intended for a higher purpose, and she means to use the large part of her own estates to celebrate the glory of God. If she cannot build a glorious cathedral to His name, she will at least endow a college. 

Indeed, she intends to put her plans to Richard, among other things. When next he returns to Middleham, there will be much to tell him. 

\--

When Richard arrives a week later, there is a blanket of fresh snow over the castle and its vast lands. The air is crisp and clean and helps him to put the lingering rankness of London behind him. 

Not everyone is happy with the weather, however. Margaret is unused to the cold, the winds that whip up the moors and lay frost on the castle walls, and she complains loudly and often. Every time she speaks of returning south, the servants somehow forget to stoke the hearth fires, making her even more cold and miserable. 

"It is all a plot. They are trying to drive me away," she says sourly as they sit down for the evening meal, the castle for once devoid of its usual throng of guests and petitioners. 

Despite his best efforts, Richard cannot hide his amusement, and after a moment, he gives in and laughs heartily. "You know, Margaret, they might be more amenable if they weren't so frightened of you."

She bristles. "I am not a dragon, my lord."

"No, but you run the place with an iron hand, and it will take them a while to warm to you."

Margaret frowns, her eyes narrow as she studies him. "What have you heard?"

Richard smirks. "Just some idle chatter here and there. Something about you cutting off the castle's purse strings."

It strikes Margaret for the first time that she may have overstepped. Castles and great manors are run by their ladies, but they are not meant to take decisions without the approval of their lords. The servants would have assumed that she'd acted on Richard's behalf, but he'd know differently. 

"Are you...angry?"

He frowns in confusion and shakes his head. "Why would I be angry?" He spears a piece of fish with his knife and looks thoughtful. "Indeed, I'm glad.

"Warwick had over 7000 pound a year from his various estates. George has about 4000 and I have perhaps half that, even with your generous contribution." He gives her a wan smile. "Your parsimony could be quite helpful in its way."

She nods. "I'm glad to be helpful." 

But he is not listening, not really. "I have ambitions, you know. Not just to hold the north for my brother, but to make it a thing worth holding." He turns to her now, his eyes so intense Margaret wants to look away. "Tell me you stand with me, that you'll help me in this endeavor."

She wants to deny him, but she cannot. She is locked into his gaze, mesmerized. She thinks he has bewitched her somehow. "Of course, yes. Whatever I can do."

"Good," he says with a nod of his head, and as his eyes leave hers, the spell is broken and Margaret comes back sharply to reality. She resists the urge to cross herself. 

"What do you plan?" 

"Well," he begins, both cautious and excited. "I noticed that you have several small estates in the west that are far removed from the rest of your holdings. If we were to perhaps exchange those for other lands here in the north?" Richard's voice trailed off as he waited for Margaret's reactions. 

She knits her brows together, trying to concentrate. "Those estates are small, yes, but they turn a good profit and I would be loathe to give them up for nothing."

"Oh, not nothing, I assure you. Come, I will show you the maps I've had drawn up." 

Margaret raises an eyebrow, surprised at his presumption, at how far he's gone with his new plans without a word to her. She bristles a little, but decides against any protest. There will be a better time to remind Richard that she does not intend to be merely a pawn in his game. 

\--

Richard slaps the papers down on his desk and swears roundly. Belatedly, he catches the frown of disapproval on Margaret's face and relents. 

"I'm sorry. That was not intended for your ears."

"No, I suppose not," she says simply, returning her attention to the sewing in her lap. He waits a few moments for her further reaction, but Margaret seems content with the silence, so he sighs loudly and clucks his tongue until she looks up at him, an eyebrow raised in question. 

"Your kinswoman, the Countess of Oxford, is being a bit of a problem."

She frowns. "The earl's wife is one of your _many_ Neville cousins, is she not?"

"Not his wife. His mother. Edward has granted me her son's forfeited estates, but she has tied them in fee in such a way that I may not have them." 

"Hmm. Quite clever of her, really."

Richard hisses in irritation. "Yes, very clever. She must have a good set of lawyers. But it's also entirely illegal."

Margaret says nothing in reply. He can tell from the slight downturn of her mouth that she disapproves. Curious, he prods her. "What do you think I should do?" 

"Oh, I would never think to counsel you on such matters, my lord." 

Richard laughs. "Of course not."

"But I will say that I think a widow needs a livelihood of some sort. Lady Elizabeth is used to a certain way of life, and it will be difficult to manage for her. 

"Especially as she also needs to support that one son of hers, the one at Cambridge."

"Ah." Richard mulls over the matter. Though she'd demurred, Margaret had at least put a few thoughts in his head. Perhaps the old dowager countess can be bought off with an annuity and a bursary for her unfortunate younger son. 

"Thank you, Meg."

She shrugs. "Whatever for? I have done nothing." 

Richard smirks at her, amused but also oddly proud. "Nonetheless, I name you my chief counselor."

\--

He'd meant it only as a jest but in the weeks that follow, they fall into a pattern. Late in the evenings, they sit in his study as he reads her the day's correspondence. Sometimes, where she thinks it appropriate, Margaret offers advice, but often she is content to listen and learn. 

Mostly, she is curious about Richard himself. She is not particularly surprised to discover that he is a stubborn and hard young man, as she imagines his father once was. But he is also a thoughtful man, given to careful consideration and to sober reflection. He is pious and God-fearing, and what he lacks in brute strength, he more than makes up for in determination and conviction. He is stern with those of his own station, yet equally gentle with those who see him as their lord and rely on his kindness. 

In many ways, he is exactly the sort of man Margaret might have chosen for herself if she'd ever been given that chance. Richard is the ideal husband in all ways except one. She sighs softly and looks over at him, hesitating. There is no pleasant way to broach the topic, and it is not in her nature to be evasive and make up a story to hide her true meaning. 

"Richard," she begins haltingly. He looks up from the book he's reading and raises an eyebrow at her. 

"Why do you never come to my bed?" 

He snaps the book shut and the sound echoes through the room. She notes his hesitation, the perfect stillness of his hands as he decides how to answer her. 

"Meg..." 

"You said once that we should be plain with each other, and that's why I ask. If I have done something to upset you, Richard, I will--"

"No, no. It is only that I..." He puts a hand to his forehead and she can see the tight set of his jaw, the worry in his eyes. "It is for you to ask, Margaret. It is for you to say when it will be."

She frowns, thinking this is an evasion, that there is more to the matter than he is willing to admit. "And if I say it is now?" 

He lets out a long hissing breath and she sees him hesitate before he leaves his chair to approach her. "Then it is now." He holds his hand out to her. "Come."

She takes his hand and when he pulls her up to stand, she feels an odd sense of regret, as if she has given up a thing she should have held on to. But she is across the Rubicon now. There is no turning back. 

\--

They lie in bed later, exhausted but content. He curls his hands into her hair as she rests her head on his chest, nearly asleep. He cannot deny that sharing a bed with his wife is a more pleasant experience than he'd first expected. He chuckles a little remembering Edward's words about widows being good bedmates. Margaret is no wanton, of course, but she knows what she likes and seems enthusiastic enough. He imagines their bed will at least a place of affection if not of passion. That is more than he could have wished under the circumstances, and for the moment, he is satisfied. Still, he cannot fight his uneasiness, a prickling worry in the back of his mind that an important thing has been left undone. 

"Meg," he says gently, evoking a sleepy murmur in response. "Do you like me?" 

She yawns and presses closer. "What an absolutely silly thing to ask." But before he can probe her for an answer, she yawns again and falls asleep, leaving him troubled and alone with his thoughts. 

\--

_July 1473_

As spring turns to summer, reivers begin to gather along the marches, and Richard goes north to man the borders and see off the Scots. A few weeks later, he writes to let her know he will return soon with his men and an honored guest. Francis Lovell is coming to Middleham. 

Charged with readying the castle, Margaret sets about the various tasks with her usual efficiency. Servants are ordered about, chambers are cleaned, stalls are mucked out, tapestries are hung, and feasts are planned. 

Finally, after a week of frenzied activity, the day arrives. Margaret waits at the gates to the castle's inner bailey, her servants standing in a neat line behind her. The trumpets blare Richard's return, their call echoing off the ramparts as the ground vibrates under the thunder of a hundred hooves. The sound is deafening, and Margaret is at once puffed with pride and cowed in awe. 

Nervously, she curtseys as Richard dismounts and throws the reins to one of the stable hands. He is wearing a thunderous expression that is totally at odds with the softness of his eyes. He gives her a quick once over and bows over her hand, correct and polite. "My lady. You are well?" His eyes linger on hers a little longer than she would like. 

Margaret reddens and drops his gaze, pulling her hand out of his. "My lord. Welcome home." 

"I have much to tell you. We shall speak later, yes?"

She nods and turns her attention to the rest of the retinue and to Francis Lovell in particular who waits patiently behind Richard. 

"My lord Lovell. Welcome to Middleham."

Like Richard, Francis is a model of polite decorum, though he has a wild crop of fair hair that does not match distinguished personality. He towers over her and then bows politely. "My lady. I thank you for your kind hospitality." 

The formalities over, Margaret leads them into the castle. Behind her, Richard and Francis share some private joke and laugh heartily. She wonders at their friendship, and for not the first time in her life, wishes she had a friend, even just one. 

\--

After a few weeks, Margaret begins to fret. With Francis in tow, Richard takes to visiting his various northern estates. More often than not, he spends time at Sheriff Hutton and in Pontefract. In one sense, it is a relief when Richard is away, for the household runs much more smoothly when the duke and his retinue are not trampling through the castle twice a day. But in another sense, she misses Richard and wishes there were things of greater import for her to do at Middleham. Like all ladies of her station, she manages the household accounts, attends chapel and visits the village to see after the well-being of those who rely on Richard's good lordship. 

But it is not enough, and she misses being her own mistress. When Richard returns to Middleham shortly before Michaelmas, a rather haggard-looking Francis following a few days later, she asks his permission to return south. 

"The harvest will come in soon, and I should like to return to Woking, or perhaps to Collyweston, so I may oversee matters to my own liking." 

Richard is busy pouring wine for both of them and he startles and spills a little, prompting the cupbearer to clean up after him. He regards her through narrowed eyes and speaks haltingly. "I thought you'd consider tarrying a few weeks. Until after Michaelmas perhaps?" 

She takes the cup of wine he holds out to her. "I could stay, but to what end?" 

He gives her a lopsided smile, both uncertain and charming in its way. "My birthday comes at that time of year. You could stay and help me celebrate." He takes a long draught of his wine. "You could meet the children."

She sputters and when the goblet shakes violently in her hand, she sets it down and clasps her fingers together. "Ch...children?" 

He frowns. "Yes. I had told your man Bray about them. I thought perhaps you knew."

"He...he must have neglected to mention it." She raises her head for a moment and sees his shoulders slump a little as he sighs in resignation. Margaret twists her hands together and tries to be strong and resolute. "How many?" 

"Two," he says simply. "Kathryn and John." He meets her eyes for a beat before turning away and staring out of the oriel window. "They are good children. I'm rather proud of them and glad to have them near."

She nods absently. In her mind, she is turning over the problem of the children. They are illegitimate, conceived in sin, and yet Richard is not ashamed of them. Far from it, he owns up to them openly and provides for them. This is not the usual circumstance for people of his rank. She can only think of one reason for such closeness. Their mother must be his mistress. 

She hesitates, but the thought has imbedded itself in her brain and begs to be asked. "And their mother?" 

She sees his face change and become hard, the lips set thinly together, his jaw tight. "Not your concern," he says testily. He sets his cup on the table with too much force, the noise making Margaret flinch. 

"I have other things to see to," he says, his voice dangerously soft. "You may return south whenever you wish. I would prefer it you waited until after Michaelmas, but it is no matter to me if you decide otherwise." He presses a hand to his face and sighs, but when he looks at her again, his gaze is even and polite. "I will be in London for Yuletide, so we shall see each other then." He waves her away in dismissal and walks out of the solar, leaving Margaret alone with her thoughts. 

\--

In the end, she decides to stay. She offers no explanation for her change of heart, and Richard asks for none. They go about their business as if nothing has changed between them, but Margaret knows that whatever affection had begun to grow between them has been uprooted. Now when Richard speaks to her, his tone is matter-of-fact and business like, as if she is only of the many on his ducal council. Now when he looks at her, his eyes are full of questions she cannot answer. 

They are careful to keep the strain between them a secret. The servants are none the wiser, though Margaret suspects her maid Elizabeth has noticed a change, the maid is wise enough to keep her own counsel and does not trouble Margaret for answers nor tell her what to do. 

Francis sees it too, and over supper, he gives Margaret a worried look over the rim of his goblet. She does no more than smile at him in a sad and strained way, and unexpectedly, he feels a wave of sympathy for her, the way a man might feel for a fledgling with a broken wing. 

For Francis, the discovery of Richard's growing affection for his wife has been a welcome surprise. He'd held no great hope at first that his friend would come to an accord with one who had been neither the lady of his heart nor the sort of woman he'd have chosen for himself. 

But Richard seems to genuinely like Margaret and Francis is glad that he's found at least some semblance of happiness. But things appear to have gone awry between them and he's determined to get to the bottom of it. 

After supper one night, when Richard is ensconced in his study dictating letters to his secretary, Francis seeks Margaret out. 

"My lady," he says, waving in the direction of a handsome chess board that he remembers from his time as Warwick's ward. "Do you play?" 

"A little. Not well," Margaret responds, already halfway out of the room before he can stop her. 

"Oh, I'm not very good either. We'll be well matched." 

She raises an eyebrow at him, suspicious. But at length, she relents and pulls up a chair in front of the board. "Let's play."

After a few opening moves, Margaret surveys the board and wonders what her next gambit should be. Henry had taught her to play on those long rainy autumn nights as she'd waited for news of her son. He'd been excellent at chess, sound with the sort of strategy and courage he did not show on the battlefield. She'd remained mostly indifferent to the nuances of the game, but understood it well enough to realize Francis was much better than he'd let on. Not willing to concede defeat just yet, she decides to distract him with idle chatter. 

"So how did you and Richard come to be such good friends?" 

Francis smiles, his lips quirked in amusement. "We were both here as young lads, when we were wards of the Earl of Warwick."

She fingers one of her knights and plots her next move. "Yes, but so were many others, and Richard does not count all the others as close friends."

"No, that's true." He leans back in his chair and makes a great show of thinking before he answers. "See, Richard likes those who are honest and those who are loyal. I am the rare man who happens to be both."

She makes her move, taking one of his pawns in the process. "I suppose Richard doesn't have much use for modesty."

Francis gapes at her, surprised and then he laughs out loud, slapping his thigh in amusement. "It's true. I'm not modest. But then again, neither are you. I think we are going to great friends, Lady Margaret."

She balks at first, taken aback by his familiarity, but then she joins in his laughter and finds her cares diminished a little. 

They play on for a few minutes before a parched Francis signals for the cup bearer. When their wine has been poured, he raises a glass to her. "And now that we are friends, perhaps you will tell me what troubles you."

Margaret is indignant. "I beg your pardon?" 

"I mean no insult, my lady. But I see that there is some rift between you and Richard, and I would rather you were at peace."

"There is no rift." She waves a hand dismissively, subconsciously mimicking the tone Richard had used with her. "But a marriage may have many hidden things, Lord Lovell, and it is not polite to ask after them."

He smirks at her. "Thousands of hidden things. I have a wife too, my lady, so I have some knowledge of marriage." 

"Yet you did not bring your lady wife?" 

Francis hesitates and sips his wine, searching for the right words. "Anna and I, we have an arrangement. She rather prefers to remain at Minster Lovell, and I rather prefer to travel." It was not actually his preference, but distance seemed to preserve just enough peace in his marriage that he and Anna could tolerate each other's company for a few weeks at a time. "It does make me a bit lonely though," he adds, not entirely sure why he's admitting such a thing to Margaret. 

"I wonder..." Margaret's voice trails off and silence falls between them as she sinks into deep thought. 

"What do you wonder?" 

She meets his gaze evenly. Her eyes are bright but there is worry in them too. "I wonder if, on his travels, Richard is ever lonely." 

_Ah. So we come to the real matter._ "I don't know, my lady. It's not something we speak about."

"No?" she asks, clearly suspicious. "He has children. They must have a mother."

His eyes widen in surprise. "Are you asking me if Richard has a mistress?" 

"If we are to be plain, yes. I find that plain speech now avoids strife later." She squares her shoulders and glares at him, defiant and demanding. 

He is uncowed. "Then I will tell you plainly that I do not know if Richard has a mistress, nor do I know anything of the mother of his children. These are things he has never spoken of with me.

"I will tell you even more plainly that it is wrong to ask these questions."

"I am his wife. I am entitled to know if he--"

"Perhaps. But Richard cares about loyalty, and because he cares, he does not take his own oaths lightly. He swore his allegiance to his brother long ago and he did not wavered from it, though his own life hung in the balance. And he married you, so he will hew to that oath as well."

She nods in response, but she seems unconvinced, so he goes on. "Listen, Margaret. You must trust Richard, and he must trust you. Do not let so small a thing come between you. Take it from me. A marriage without strife may still be a peaceful one."

\--

_October 1473_

The children stand in the solar, stiff and trembling. The girl is the older of the two and she has a serious face and bright blue eyes. The boy is small and has trouble standing still, shuffling his feet and fidgeting in the arms of his nurse. 

There is nothing of the mother in either child. They are the picture of Richard in both coloring and demeanor, and Margaret is deeply touched by their plight. They are the fruit of Richard's sins, but they are innocent and deserve to be raised properly, with a firm hand and the with the word of God. What she would have done for her own son had God not willed otherwise, she vows to do for these two instead. 

At a nudge from the nurse, the girl curtseys to Margaret. "If it pleases you, my lady. I'm called Kathryn." She points at her brother. "And he is John." She looks worried for a moment before adding in a whisper. "He is only two and his manners are not very good yet."

It is all Margaret can do to keep from laughing out loud. "Never mind. There will be time enough for that later." She claps her hands together. "Now, come. You must call me lady mother and we must see to your lessons while you are here. Perhaps we will start in the chapel..."

She begins to whisk the children away, their nurse in tow, when Richard stops her with a hand to her elbow. He gives her a bemused look and takes her hand, bowing over it. "Thank you, Meg."

She nods in acknowledgment. "They are good children, I think." She frees her hand and follows the nurse out of the room, but on her way out, she turns. "You are fortunate that your children are so near that you may seem them from to time. Would that I were lucky enough to see my own son again."

\--


	6. Bargain

**Chapter 6. Bargain**

"Nothing can come of nothing: speak again."

_December 1473_  
London

Richard steps lightly off the barge and hops on to the dock, light in body, and for once, not especially heavy of mind. For once, it is quiet along the Scottish marches, and his northern affairs are well in order. 

Margaret had left Middleham after Michaelmas to tend to her own affairs in the south. She'd written him a report on the state of the lands, full of figures and the occassional gossip. There is never anything in the letters to suggest affection, and yet, Richard is eager to see his wife again. 

But there is other business at hand too, and while he hopes for peace, he readies for trouble. With his full retinue following closely behind him, Richard crosses over the narrow cobblestoned paths that separate the river from the great houses along it. In just a few minutes, his arrival is announced by trumpet fare outside the gates of Coldharbour. 

Curiously, his brother does not receive him as he usually does. One of his men is kneeling, his head bowed low. 

"Your pardon, my lord. But my lord of Clarence is at chapel and asks that I show you in."

Richard nods and dismisses the man, but is surprised to find he's not alone. A page ushers him into the private sitting room, and in the pale light of an oriel window, he sees a young woman reading a book. It is Anne. 

His boots scrape against the floor, and she raises her head at the noise. "Richard! It's so good to see you." She drops a quick curtsey and extends her hand for his kiss. Thrown by the gesture and still a bit startled, he takes her hand and bows politely over it.

"Anne. I did not know you were here." She offers a half-smile in response, a sardonic gesture that recognizes he would not have made the visit if he'd known he'd see her in George's home. 

"I came to visit my sister, and to give little Margaret a Christmas present." Her face lights up. "Oh, Richard, you must see the baby. She is the most beautiful child, a proper princess." She tugs at his sleeve and drags him out of the hall and into the private wings of the manor to visit the nursery. 

Unfortunately, the little princess is fast asleep, and not quite the sight that Anne had hoped. She sighs in disappointment. "Our Margaret really is a delight." 

Richard chuckles. "She is a beautiful babe. My mother wrote to tell me as much when she was born." The baby begins to stir and Margaret's nurse glares at the two of them until they leave the room and return to the sitting room. 

"How are you, Anne? Are you living at Coldharbour again?" 

"Oh, no. I am still very much in the employ of Princess Bess." Anne's tone is matter-of-fact, but Richard can sense her resentment. It cannot be easy to be born to one of the greatest families in the realm, to be a princess and then to be brought low, reduced to little more than a lady-in-waiting. Anne is as hurt as a wounded animal, and, he suspects, just as dangerous in her own way. 

He tries to find some way to reassure her, but the words are barely formed in his mind before they are alerted to George's return. Retainers scurry across the hall to do their lord's bidding, and George walks over to them, regal and self-important, a glowing Isabel on his arm. 

"Brother," he calls out cheerfully. "If I'd known you were coming, I should have saved our visit to chapel for later in the day." 

"No, no," Richard offers. "It is no matter. You are here now."

An awkward silence extends between them, as the brothers stare at their boots, unsure of what to say. Anne clears her throat. "I took Richard to the nursery to see the baby."

George's face lights up as he if he's swallowed the sun. "Ah, yes? Isn't she a perfect child, our little Margaret?" Richard raises an eyebrow in surprise. He's heard rumors that his brother was disappointed to have a girl, but the look on his face makes lie of that. George is utterly besotted with his daughter and his joy is infectious. 

Isabel smiles, calm and indulgent. "George is terrible. He goes to the nursery at all hours of the day and insists the nurses wake the babe so he can coo at her." 

"Yes, well," George scratches his chin and looks sheepish for a moment before recovering his usual dignity. "So what brings you here, Richard?" 

"Nothing of import. I came to London only yesterday and thought to pay my respects."

They are ushered back into the sitting room, and George's servants, all wonderfully liveried and efficient, bring them wine and food. 

"Have you been to court, Richard?" Isabel is only making conversation, but he hears Anne's sharp intake of breath and sees the blood run out of George's face. 

"Yes. I was summoned yesterday."

"Oh? For what purpose?" 

Richard smirks. It is in George's nature to be suspicious, and for a moment, he considers lying to keep his brother in the dark. But out of deference to Anne and Isabel, he shrugs instead. "It was for a deed of land, George." He takes a quick swig of wine. "The estates appurtenant to the earldom of Cambridge."

"Ah." To his surprise, George says nothing and does not seem disappointed in his usual way. Indeed, his brother's eyes have a far-away look, and suddenly, Richard understands. The earldom had belonged to their father, and would have come to him naturally had the Duke of York lived. Instead, Edward had given him the lands to commemorate his 21st birthday, much as he'd done for George with the earldom of Ulster. The titles Edward kept for himself, because to part with them would be to erase their father's memory, and for Edward, that is a step too far. 

They lapse into a strange sort of silence, lost in their own memories until Isabel once again draws them back. "Then you will have heard our news?" 

This time, George reacts in an entirely predictable way. "Isabel! There is no need to speak of that now." 

Isabel gives her husband a sharp glance, but she is the picture of wifely obedience and immediately falls silent. Anne, not constrained in the same way, laughs instead. 

"What my sister is trying to say is this. We are to visit our mother in sanctuary at Beaulieu."

Richard gapes at her. "What?" 

"Yes. I've made repeated requests to the king that he should allow Mother to come home." She speaks easily, but Richard can see the angry flash in her eyes. "Naturally, he refused. But this time, perhaps possessed by the spirit of Yule, he has relented and allowed Isabel and me to visit her.

"With George, of course," she emends quickly. This earns her a withering glare from her sister and an uncomfortable grunt from George. She smiles sweetly at both of them. "We leave on the morrow." 

"Yes," George adds, recovering his composure, "and afterwards, we will be at Warwick." He does not add that this is by design, that it is easier for George where his brother the king does not cast such a long shadow. "You must come visit, brother," he says, a little too sharply and without really meaning it. 

"I'd be delighted." Richard has no intention of visiting Warwick, but he knows how the game is played. "And, of course, you must come north sometime. It has been too long since you were at Middleham."

Isabel claps her hands in delight, and soon, the conversation lapses into chatter about their childhood in the north. For a few minutes, they are almost like a normal family. 

\--

It is well past sunset when the duke's men ride into the forecourt of Margaret's manor just outside the city. She waits patiently, her head bowed, her servants organized into a neat line at the gate.

Richard raises a gloved fist in greeting, and jumps easily off his horse, throwing the reins to a waiting groomsman. For a moment, Margaret worries that he will run up to her and embrace her in public, but Richard does no such thing. As always, he is correct and polite, bowing politely over her hand. 

"Sire. Welcome to Richmond Park."

"My lady. You are well?" 

She nods, and leads him inside, her hand in the crook of his arm, as if they were the most natural couple in the world. Her servants rush around the house, busy with seeing to their royal lord's needs, and Margaret quails a little. It is her house, her servants, and yet she cannot remember if she's ever been accorded such importance. 

It is no more than his due, of course. He is a royal duke, a prince of the blood. But sometimes she wonders if there is more to it than just that. Though he is unlike his brothers in looks and temperament, Richard wears his station just as easily as they do, and when he puts his mind to it, he can be charming and witty. Those who know Richard well, those he commands and those he serves, they all love him. 

She allows herself a sidelong glance at his hard but handsome face. She is at once awed by her young husband and fiercely proud of him. _My home, my servants, my Richard_. She whispers it to herself like a prayer, and wills it all to be true. 

Later, after Richard has washed off the dust of his journey, after they have dined and drunk to each other's health, he takes a chair by the fire and holds his cup out to be filled. 

"You were meant to arrive this morning, weren't you?"

He sighs. "Yes, but I had to pay my brother George a visit first." 

"I see," she says, not really seeing at all. Richard is not given to great displays of filial devotion to anyone other than his brother the king. 

"I would not have gone at all, but for Edward. He wants me to keep watch on George, I suppose."

"Is he in need of watching?" 

Richard scoffs but says nothing else, sipping his spiced ale and lapsing into a pensive silence. At length, he speaks again. "I will have to return to court for all the Yuletide celebrations. Would you like to come?" 

"Should I?" It is not a real question, not one that requires a real answer. But she knows she is not entirely welcome at King Edward's court, Duchess of Gloucester or not. 

He meets her eyes evenly, a thousand unspoken questions between them. "It's up to you." She tries to swallow down her disappointment. That Richard might not wish her company at court is nothing new, but she'd hoped otherwise. Foolish woman, she chides herself. 

But a moment later, he surprises her. "It's up to you, Meg. But I would like very much for you to be there with me." He holds his hand out to her, and still a bit startled by this sudden show of support, Margaret takes it. 

Suddenly shy and unable to meet his eyes, she strokes her thumb over a scar on the back of his hand. "Perhaps we should retire now, and I'll tell you in the morning?" 

\--

She knows what they say at court. They whisper that he's a poor soul trapped in a sad marriage to an old, shriveled crone. But what do they know of her desires? They cannot know how she trembles at his touch, how her lips seek his in the middle of the night, desperate for a taste of sweetness, of that elusive, fleeting pleasure, a thousand rainstorms unleashed all at once. They cannot understand how safe and warm she feels when she wakes under the furs in the morning, with his lithe young body wrapped around her own. 

He knows what they say at court. They whisper that this marriage is diabolical, a cynical union made in the pursuit of of power. But what do they know of his marriage bed? They cannot understand that she touches him with more knowledge, more tenderness, than any other woman he's lain with. They cannot know how she cries out his name, a hot and desperate whisper that warms him to his very core. They cannot see that in the final moments of their coupling, as they cling desperately to each other, she belongs utterly to him: her body, her mind, her loyalty. 

Whey they wake, they will once again look on each other with suspicion and doubt, but for the moment, they love, and that is enough. 

\--

Edward raises his head and stares out at his brother, eyes narrowed in careful study. He knows it makes him look imposing, even frightening, but in truth, it is a ploy. He's had far too much to drink in the past two days, and he is having trouble focusing on the matter at hand. 

"What is the meaning of this?" He shakes the sheaf of papers in his hand at Richard, who seems neither cowed nor worried. 

"It's a petition."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, brother." Edward tries to ignore the pounding in his head. "The question would be why, and more importantly, why now?" 

Richard ponders the most politic way to phrase his request. "My wife would like her son returned to her custody. That's really all there is to it."

This time, when Edward glares at him, it is not a pretense. "Have you lost your mind?" He bellows at Richard and regrets it instantly, the sound making his head throb. He brings his hand to his forehead to quell the pain. "You want me to bring back to England this...this boy, who was once proclaimed the heir of Lancaster? The son of an attainted traitor and the nephew of another?" 

Richard bristles. "What difference does that make? I was an attainted traitor once. Come to think of it, you were an attainted traitor once." 

Edward schools himself to calmness, to patience. Even though he seethes within, he allows none of it to show. Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow at his brother, conceding the point. "Your timing is terrible, Richard."

"Is it? I heard that you were being lenient these days."

Edward laughs, his irritation temporarily forgotten. "Who is telling these _horrible_ tales?" 

"I was at Coldharbour. The household is preparing for a bit of a northern progress. To Beaulieu Abbey. I believe they're bringing in the new year with the Countess of Warwick."

"Don't mock me, Richard. Yes, I let Warwick's daughters visit their mother. Do you know why I did it?"

Richard smirks. "It is custom for the king to be generous at Christmas?"

Edward chuckles. "Yes, and I am the most generous, most Christian, of kings.

"But I did it because I'm tired, Richard. Our cousin Anne makes request after request about her mother. She writes letters, sends petitions, even had my little Bess approach me once." 

Frustrated, he flings the papers on the floor. "She makes Warwick's countess seem like a saint, a martyr." He lets out a laugh. "I tell you, the sooner that girl is married and busy with her own interests, the better it will be." He sees Richard wince, and regrets the words instantly, but the pounding in his head recedes, if only for a moment. "Meanwhile, George whines and complains. He beseeches me at every turn, ever more incessant, to keep the countess locked away so she may not make trouble for him.

"And I am forced to listen to both of them, all of the time. I did not want to hear more of the same during the Yuletide!" He fixes Richard with an even stare, feeling just a bit smug. "This way, I satisfy George that Lady Warwick remains safely in captivity and I satisfy Anne and Isabel that their mother is well and not in any real danger." He shrugs. "It buys time, and it does no harm." 

He scrapes the papers off the floor, waving away the servant who comes to help. When he has them in hand, he waves them in his brother's face. "But this? This is not harmless, Richard. 

"I cannot bring the heir of Lancaster back to England. Not when Louis the Spider rattles his swords at me from across the sea."

"That has nothing to do with Lancaster. Indeed, Margaret's son has nothing to do with Lancaster. Louis is not about to champion a penniless, friendless boy. He's no threat to you, Edward."

"How do you know if he is or not?" The throbbing in his head begins a new and he pinches the bridge of his nose to make it stop. "I know you think me harsh, but this is what it is to be king. You do not know what it is to be king." 

Richard meets his brother's eyes evenly. There are times when Edward will accept contrary words easily, even see the wisdom in them. This does not seem to be one of those times, and yet, having come this far, it would be a waste not to press the matter. 

"It's true. I don't know what it is to be king. But I know what it is to be a boy who is taken from his mother, who is banished to a foreign land, only to be isolated and forgotten. I know what it's like to think there is nobody in the world who cares for you."

Edward laughs. "Pretty words, brother. But not true. He has his mother to care for him. A woman of wealth and influence, who would not stop at using both to make trouble for us."

"Not anymore. Isn't that why you made me marry her?"

"Ha!" Edward scoffs. "You think that matters? Tell me, are her interests aligned with yours?" 

"Yes." 

"You were never a very good liar, Richard."

"No." 

The two men lock eyes, a momentary contest of wills. Edward blinks first. "Never mind. I will think on it. Come to me in the new year."

\--

_Christmas 1473  
Greenwich Palace_

Margaret smoothes out an invisible wrinkle in her dress. She has had it newly made. It is of a rich, silver-colored fabric embossed with black nets and trimmed with a sable collar, and though she is not given to preening at her own reflection, she thinks she looks almost beautiful.

Certainly, Richard, who is wearing a new doublet of nearly the same color and design, is appreciative. He smiles widely at her, and on impulse, he takes her hand and kisses her fingertips. "You look lovely, Meg."

"Thank you," she says, cherishing the compliment. She knows that in a few moments, they will enter the revelry in the great hall, and her pleasant appearance will be overshadowed by the comelier and younger women who crowd King Edward's court. She braces herself for disappointment and nestles her small hand into the crook of Richard's arm as they are announced. 

They bow pleasantly to the king and queen at the dais and then go their separate ways. Richard tells her to make idle chatter, to learn court gossip, and to hear what is said, and more importantly, what is not said. 

It is not her forte, but she tries her best. She learns soon enough that her nephew of Buckingham is not happy in his marriage, though his Woodville wife has already given him two children. She hears that the price of Flanders wool is to increase over a quarrel between the king and his brother-in-law, the Duke of Burgundy. Most importantly, she discovers that the Duchess of York intends to leave court. 

Every now and then, she catches Richard watching her. Sometimes, he greets her with a nod of the head, other times with a quick smile. Margaret smiles back, and is so pleased by the attention that she does not notice the man who slips into the chair next to her. 

"Lady Margaret, how good to see you again." 

Margaret turns around and is startled to find the king watching her. She purses her lips and bows her head stiffly. Belatedly, she reminds herself that Edward is not only the king, but her brother by marriage. Perhaps warmth is the need of the hour, especially as he is yet to refuse her petition. "Your Grace, it is always a pleasure to be in your presence."

Edward throws his head back and laughs, the sound roaring through the hall. "You have no art for dissembling, sister. It is just as well. There are too few at court willing to speak plainly with me."

"And what would you have me say plainly?" 

"Anything you wish. Tell me, if you like, how you enjoyed your time in the north." 

Margaret frowns. There is no politic way to answer such a question. But Edward's countenance does not suggest a serious question, so she risks honesty. "Plainly, Your Grace? I did not like it very much." 

"No, I didn't think you would." 

She raises an eyebrow at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. "The north has its charms. There is a quiet to it that allows for contemplation and prayer. But the people, they remain strangers to me, and the climate did not suit."

Edward chuckles. "You should be more careful. If my brother were to hear this, he'd glower most disapprovingly."

"Oh, Richard doesn't glower. He's not subtle enough for that." The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them, and she bristles at being trapped into a moment of disloyalty to her husband.

"But you, Margaret, you are subtle enough for the both of you, yes?" 

She shakes her head with honest vehemence. "No, Sire. I am not subtle, only careful." She lets his arm go and meets his eyes evenly. "You, however, are very subtle."

Edward's mask of cheers slips for just a second before he recovers with his usual laughter. "And what have I done this time?" 

Margaret points her chin out towards the other end of the room, where the lords Hastings and Dorset are engaged in awkward conversation. "I think you pit one friend against another, so that they may each remember who their true friend is." Pleased at his surprised reaction, she goes on. "And you set your brothers against each other, so they may both remember at whose pleasure they exist."

The cheer on Edward's face is nearly gone as he stares at Margaret through narrowed eyes. "I never should have brought your suit to Richard. You are too clever by far, and I worry you will swallow my poor brother whole."

\--

_To the most gracious Lady Margaret, Duchess of Gloucester and Countess of Richmond, is this letter written, on the eighteenth day of January, in the year of Our Lord 1474._

_Having considered your petition, and with the fullest extent of our Grace and Benevolence, we do hereby grant your son, Henry Tudor, permission to return to England, with the full rights of a subject, to be free and remain unmolested in all the lands over which We are Sovereign._

_This letter acts in stead of a contract of guarantee, to which you and your lord husband, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, are both parties. This letter is given in exchange for the amount of 1000 crowns and the estates appurtenant to the earldom of Cambridge, which the aforesaid Richard, Duke of Gloucester, has agreed to endow to the king in full right, free of any encumberances, laches, easements or encroachments._

_By order of Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England, and of France, and Lord of Ireland._


	7. The Prodigal Son

**The Prodigal Son**

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is  
To have a thankless child.

_Middleham Castle  
April 1474_

Henry Tudor stands with the other guests and lifts his cup in salute to the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. It is the first of the great post-Lenten feasts, and he is glad for the noise and bustle around him, because it distracts him from the awkwardness of his own situation. 

He is a guest in an unfamiliar castle in an unfamiliar land. Wensleydale reminds him a little of Wales, but everything else is different, a realm outside of all everything he knows. Though his mother has taken care to introduce him to important northeners with the appropriate ceremony, his welcome has been lukewarm at best. 

He is not easy with himself. It's not just the people who are unfamiliar. He is dressed in clothes made especially for this feast. The cloth is of the finest quality and the tunic and hose cut after the latest fashion, but it is not to his liking. He is an exile, not a prince, even in England. Henry feels like a player in a mummer's dance, a charlatan to be exposed when the masks come off. 

When he lets his mind wanders, it returns inevitably to Brittany, to the simple life he once led. Though his mother ensured he lacked for nothing, his uncle Jasper, always cautious, had made Henry keep a level head and an eye eye over his shoulder always. He'd never been allowed to feel safe and at ease, and now, even though his safety is assured, he cannot fight the feeling of unease. 

His mother, though beloved, is scarcely more familiar than his surroundings. His memories of her, faded over time but constantly embellished and improved by Jasper, are of a pious and determined woman in single-minded pursuit of his welfare. But the woman who sits at the dais in quiet conversation with her guests is practically a stranger. 

She is dressed more richly than he remembers, her dress of a dark brocade that makes her seem less pale and drawn than the lady of his memory. Her slender fingers, always gaunt and bare in his mind, are now ringed with gold and gems and she glows when people kneel before her, basking in her newfound power and influence. 

If his mother seems strange, her new husband is even more so. The duke is a hard man who is slow to smile and even slower to acknowledge Henry in any way. Outside of the politeness required by custom and courtesy, Richard has not extended a hand in friendship or offered more than a few words in conversation. 

Besides, the notion of a stepfather only a few years older is a hard pill for Henry to swallow. It was one thing to have a kindly and elderly man like Stafford for a father, the sort of man who would talk to a young boy about horses, teach him how to play a quick game of cards, or encourage him to roust with the village boys. Henry doubts Richard will be so kind or amenable. 

Presently, he is reminded of his position when he scrambles to his feet along with the other guests. Wood scrapes over stone as everyone stands to toast their gracious lord and lady before the feast ends. Henry watches as his mother takes Richard's hand and bows politely in acknowledgment. Her eyes sparkle, the smile on her face is brilliant, and never more than when she meets the eyes of her husband. 

Henry feels suddenly ill, almost dizzy with shock. He has seen that look on the faces of women before, not many, and not even very often, but enough to recognize it. His mother _desires_ her husband. 

His mother, a model of piety, a woman so virtuous she is nearly a saint is nothing more than an ordinary woman, with ordinary wants and needs. And he, her only son, ordained to greatness at birth, is nothing more than the ordinary son of that ordinary woman. 

In one fell stroke, and with no more than a glance and a smile, everything Henry has ever known of himself is slashed away. He is rudderless and cast about on the waves of fate, and Middleham is no safe harbor. 

\--

"So what do you think of him?" 

Richard frowns at Francis, not quite understanding. His friend chuckles in response. "You know. Him. Your new...er, son."

Richard rolls his eyes, wishing Francis was sitting a bit closer and was not quite so tall, so he can give him a swift kick in the shins as he used to when they were just children. "I can't decide how I feel about him, to be honest. From the way Meg treats him, you'd think he was still a boy in need of a nurse, and not a grown man of seventeen!"

"But you feel a bit bad for him? You should, at any rate. He's had a hard life."

"Has he?" Richard sighs and takes a long swig of ale. "I don't see how. Harry Tudor has gone from the comfort of Duke Francis' court in Brittany to the comfort of my hearth in Yorkshire, without even getting his boots dirty." 

Francis shrugs. "But he's had nobody, no guiding hand. If he had one, it was his uncle, and now he's stuck across the sea as well. It must not be easy."

Richard nods in vague agreement until a new thought comes to him. "Did Meg put you up to this?" 

"No," Francis says, not entirely convincing. "Whatever gave you that idea?" 

Richard scoffs. "Ha! Well, what would you have me do? Buy him a pony?" He laughs and Francis joins in, not entirely sure if it's prudent for him to suggest things to his friend. Richard is one of those men who likes to think his decisions are always his own. 

"We could take him with us." Francis speaks quickly and covers his expression strategically with his goblet. There is a flash of surprise on Richard's face, followed quickly by a resigned smirk. 

"Very well. I suppose it is not an entirely foolish idea, though I will hold you responsible if my enjoyment is ruined."

\-- 

Henry's eyes flit over the page of the book he's reading. It is not quite to his taste, nor is it diverting enough to take his mind off his predicament. Even though he arrived months ago, he is still a stranger in his mother's new home. Worse, he suspects he might be a prisoner within the cold and dank walls of this northern keep. 

Nobody takes much notice of him. Gloucester is polite but distant. Lord Lovell, a frequent guest, is a bit friendlier, but not much more. Other than his mother, there is none who seem concerned with his particular welfare. If this is freedom, he wishes he could be back in exile, with at least his uncle for company. Jasper kept him entertained, kept his spirits up. There is nought at Middleham but quiet contemplation and the dizzying worry it brings. 

To pass time, Henry plays cards, mostly by himself, sometimes with his mother and her lady. They are more than happy to humor him by losing a bit of coin in a round of _brelan_ , but he resents them for it. To him, a card game rewards those who are patient and watchful, and he has no desire to gamble foolishly, risking all on a small chance of victory. Even more, he hates the idea that anyone would throw away a perfectly good game over mere sentiment. 

He sighs and gives up on the book, deciding to take a walk around the keep, but stops in his tracks at the sounds behind him. He turns his head, annoyed, only to find himself in the presence of Gloucester and Lovell.

He bows politely in his host's direction. "My lord."

Richard inclines his head in response, looking unusually awkward, even to Henry's unaccustomed eye. "Harry. I'm glad we caught up with you." He clears his throat. "Are you fond of hawking? Only...Lord Lovell and I are riding to Sheriff Hutton for a bit of sport, and..." 

"Hawking? I've never...I don't know if--"

"What he means is this. Would you rather sit here in the solar," he strokes his chin thoughtfully, "like a woman? Or would you like to engage in pursuits more befitting a man of your station?" 

Henry bristles. "I beg your pardon?" 

Richard chuckles, his unease disappearing. "Francis means nothing by it. He just likes to hear himself speak. If you wish to join us, let my steward know, and he will ensure you are properly provisioned."

"I don't..." Henry hesitates, tongue-tied and surprised. Belatedly, he hears Jasper's voice in his head, a call to mind his manners. "Thank you. I should be happy to join in your sport."

\--

Margaret sits up in bed listening to Richard as she reads. He's telling her of his recent trip to York, but she does not hear the words. All her thoughts are of her son, as they have been almost constantly since Henry's birth. 

Her life these past years has dominated by a single pursuit, securing his safety and future. But now that he is returned to her, Margaret does not know what to think, how to feel. Henry is nearly a stranger to her. Jasper is his father, she thinks, the man who taught him his letters, his manners, how to be a man. Jasper is his mother too, the one who held him when he was ill, and comforted him through a child's nightmares. She's never been a part of his life, and now he is already a man and has no need of her at all. She feels her heart sink, weighed down with melancholy and regret. 

"...and that's when I decided to ride off the edge of the cliff and plummet to my death."

The last word shakes her out of her reverie. Alarmed, she glares at him. "What did you say?" 

Richard smirks. "You're not paying attention. What has you so distracted?" 

"It's nothing." Frustrated, she throws the book down and turns back the covers. "Come to bed, husband." She crawls under the bed furs and waits as he undresses. When he finally joins her, taking her in his arms and pressing his mouth to hers, only one thought passes through her mind. 

_I must have another child._

\--

_Sheriff Hutton  
July 1474_

A piercing shriek rents the morning sky as the bird flies over a copse of trees and swoops down into the fields in pursuit of its prey. 

Richard claps his gloved hands together in glee, thoroughly enjoying himself. For most men of his station, hawking is a mere pasttime, an excuse to feast and show off their station and their wealth through the size of their birds. But to Richard, it is the highest form of sport. 

He has the best falconer in the whole land, better even than the king's man, and his birds fly truer than any others in the north. Already the sleek long-winged peregrine, his best falcon, has flushed out her quarry, probably a rabbit, maybe a pheasant. 

Richard hoots in delight as his beaters follow the falcon's path into the trees. "Francis, did you see that? See how well she flew?" 

Francis chuckles. "I did, and so did everyone else." Richard scowls at his friend's dismissive reaction, but he knows Francis well enough to know no harm is intended. His perenially sullen stepson is another matter, however. 

Since they first rode out the previous day, Henry has said little, given nothing of himself away. He is a careful, wary, young man not easily given to laughter or humor. Richard is troubled by his demeanor, not because it is strange but because it is all too familiar. He remembers keenly the pain of standing at the edge of manhood, desperate to carve his own path in the world even as he struggled with conflicting loyalties and fickle affections. 

He sighs. "What did you think, Harry?"

"I suppose it was well done." Henry shrugs and gives him a polite half-smile. "I can't say I know much about hawking." 

Francis guffaws, the sound echoing through the open fields. "You are not find of riding, you don't know much of hawking, and you are no hunter." His eyes twinkle with mischief. "Is there anything you're good at?" 

"Yes," Henry says. "Waiting."

\--

The tavern wench sets the ale mugs down in front of Henry, leaning in just a bit too far, giving him an eyeful of her ample bosom. He is not unappreciative, and gives her a wide smile and a lingering glance as she saunters away from him. 

"I see we've found something you like after all, young Harry." 

Henry takes a swig of ale to hide his discomfort. "It's not what you think. She reminds me of someone."

"Some pretty girl you tumbled in a Breton field?" 

Henry glares at him, hoping his anger will banish the sudden, sharp memory of the girl he's left behind. But when that fails, he takes a different tack. "The children at Sheriff Hutton...they are Richard's?" 

"Yes," Francis says, his smile unchanged but his eyes narrowed and watchful. "Why?"

"Does my mother know of them?"

"She does. She's even fond of them, I think." 

Henry lets out a long, hissing breath. It is good to know his mother can forgive even the worst of sins, but he doubts he has the courage to tell his mother of his own child, a son barely a few months old when he'd set off for England. He remembers now the tiny head nestled in his arms, the clear blue eyes staring up into his face. _How strange that I'm a free man, and yet I may never see my own son again!_

"Perhaps I should give a thought to marriage," he says idly, prompting Francis to scoff and nearly choke on his ale. 

"Are you so eager then?" Francis raises his glass. "Don't be. Marriage is a fool's game, if you ask me." 

"You don't think a man needs a wife. Or an heir?" 

"I think men who care about their place in the world might. Most men just want a wife and a son because they're told they should want them, and that's no reason to want a thing." 

"Are you quite drunk?" 

"No. But enough about me. So, you want to marry? Have you a lady in mind?" 

"Perhaps." Henry drains his ale and calls for another, feeling the warmth of the amber liquid as it chases through his body. "Before I was sent to France, I lived for a time with Lord Herbert."

"Black Herbert?" Francis raises an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. 

"Yes, though I don't know why they called him that. He was always kind to me, as was his lady." This time, when the wench brings the ale, he hardly even notices her, too engrossed in his tale, his unraveling memories of a gentle childhood. "I always rather liked his daughter, Maud." He frowns a little. "We were close in age, and she wrote me a few letters. I think it would still be a good match."

Francis knits his brows together. "Maud Herbert, eh? Bad luck, lad. I think you might as well forget about her. She's already married." 

\--

Margaret startles awake. The sound of horses neighing and men clattering at the gates brings her quickly to her feet. Her first thought is that Richard has returned without going on to Pontefract as he'd told her. But he would have written first and not ridden to Middleham in the dark hours of the night. Dread creeps up on her and she throws on a robe and dashes outside, a sleepy Elizabeth trailing in her wake. 

At the oriel window, she sees men gathering around a horse, a man tied to it, prone and lifeless. _Henry!_ She screams and runs past the gatehouse and into the yard, loose-haired and barefoot. 

"Harry, my boy, my boy!" she wails. A strong pair of arms catches her and holds her tight. She struggles against the grip, as helpless as a bird beating its wings against a cage. "Let me go!"

"Calm yourself, Margaret." Francis' voice is soft and warm. "Your boy has come to no harm at all."

She looks up at him, not comprehending. "Then why..."

"Oh, we we were at a tavern on the ride back from Sheriff Hutton. Perhaps a bit too much ale. Nothing a night of sleep won't cure."

She pulls away from his arms and glares at him. "You let my son drink himself into a stupor? Where is your sense, your decency? Are you not a gentle--"

"Peace, Margaret! He's not even that drunk." 

"He's unconscious!"

"Oh, that's not from the ale. He passed out after I hit him."

"You...what?" Margaret is so shocked she can barely manage the words. What man would have the gall to strike Henry? How dare he? She grabs the front of Francis' tunic and shakes him, an ineffectual gesture at best. 

To his credit, he does not snigger or push her away. "I'm sorry, but I had to do something. He was about to ride off to Alnwick to challenge Henry Percy for the hand of the fair Maud!" 

"What?" 

"Your son has a rather unfortunate affection for the Countess of Northumberland." Now that she is calm, he grins broadly at her. "You shouldn't be angry, Margaret. I've done you a favor. Imagine the scandal!"

Later, when Henry is settled into bed to her satisfaction, Margaret joins Francis in the solar. 

"I thought you'd bring the children back with you."

Francis smiles. "I think Richard means to bring them when he returns from his council meeting. At any rate, you will surely see them before you ride south again."

"Yes." Tension rises sharply between them at the mention of her return south. "You think I shouldn't go?" 

"Not at all, though I think Richard would prefer if you remained here."

She scoffs. If her husband had such a preference, he would have spoken of it before. As such, Richard seems to prefer his freedom, and she would not risk vexing him by forcing his hand. Or his affection. "I think it's time for Harry to see the rest of the country as well."

"There's an idea," Francis says genially. "Perhaps you can bring him to court for Yuletide."

\--

(TBC)

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes, for those interested in this sort of thing: 
> 
> 1\. Though Richard had been created Duke of Gloucester at age 9, the title had not come with significant land holdings or wealth, and this situation was not remedied until after Edward's victory at Tewksbury, when Richard was awarded the tail male Neville holdings in the north. As neither Anne nor Isabel could inherit these properties, Edward must have felt free to give them to another (although he was not legally entitled to do this...stay tuned!) These lands alone would not have been enough for Richard to comfortably hold the north, so marrying into wealth was pretty much his only option. 
> 
> 2\. As Richard says in the story, the sons of York were actually more Lancastrian than Margaret Beaufort or Henry Tudor. In fact, according to the Lancastrian order of succession, with Henry VI and Edward of Lancaster dead, they were next in line. In 1471, nobody took Margaret's claim to the throne very seriously. But for the sake of this story, I assume that the threat of a Lancastrian revolt still existed at the time. 
> 
> 3\. Believe it or not, I am not the first person to suggest that Richard of Gloucester could have married Margaret Beaufort. It is a plot point in Philippa Gregory's _The Red Queen_ as well as in Episode 5 of _The White Queen_. Reay Tannahill's _The Seventh Son_ also includes a short remark that Margaret ("Stafford's clever little widow") is the only heiress apart from Anne available to Richard. Like Anne, Margaret was conveniently widowed, but unlike Anne, she was already very much in control of her own finances. 
> 
> Although _The White Queen_ refers to her as "ugly, old and fanatical," she was, in fact, none of these things. At 29, she was still at an age where she could be expected to bear children and live a long, settled life with a new husband. While she was noted for her piety, it would not have been considered excessive or fanatical in her own time. Finally, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.


End file.
